Perchance to Dream
by thegraytigress
Summary: Two years after the War of the Ring, a surprise attack on Cair Andros pits Legolas, Aragorn, and Faramir against a ruthless tyrant. All of Gondor is plunged into a brutal war with a cunning and violent adversary, and only their strength and faith in each other can save them.
1. A Sleepless Night

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hi, everyone! This story goes way back (_way _back like numerous pennames and more than a decade, which makes me feel old – where has the time gone?) It's the first time I've reposted it in ages, but considering I think it's probably the longest and most complicated story I've ever written, I decided to let it see the light of day again.

Set two years after _Return of the King, _this is a dark tale of ambition, war, and cruelty, and it explores the level of love and friendship needed to overcome the worst of adversities. Obviously, because this was written so long ago, what was revealed or hinted about Legolas' background in _The Desolation of Smaug_ won't be included (which I suppose makes this AU?). I considered changing things around to be more in line with that, but his relationship with his father and family is an important factor to his character in this story, so I let it lie. Be advised – there is a fair description of violence, rape (nothing is described in detail), and torture, so read at your own discretion. But if you stick with me, I promise there's a happy ending!

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

_To die, to sleep  
No more, and by a sleep say we end  
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks  
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation  
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,  
To sleep — perchance to dream — ay, there's the rub,  
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come  
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil  
Must give us pause._

— _William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, Act III.1_

**CHAPTER ONE: A SLEEPLESS NIGHT**

Autumn had come early, or so it seemed to Legolas as he watched the painted leaves of Ithilien threaten to tear loose from the grasping fingers of the trees. The Elf stood upon the balcony of his room, letting the cool wind soothe his nerves and hopefully caress into his heart weariness strong enough to allow his riled mind some rest. Though dawn was barely beginning to warm the eastern skies, he had been up for what he knew to be hours. The prince closed his eyes and leaned into the cold stone of the ornately carved railing. Long, slender fingers lightly traced the smooth edges, searching for imperfections in the stone, but there were none to be found. Legolas smiled faintly. Gimli had certainly meant what he had long said about turning the ruins of a human empire into a work of Dwarven art.

He opened his eyes and turned. Though Elves were hardly afflicted by cold, he shuddered. The chilly breeze that brushed by his bare chest and raked icy fingers through his hair seemed touched by something else. _Something dark,_ he thought grimly, and he looked up to the dark hues of the slowly brightening sky. He expected to see an ill omen, a dangerous sign or a glint of a terrible fortune nigh. But there was naught, only a serene, quiet moment filled with the beauty of a world restored. The dawn of a new day filled with promise and expectation. Legolas sighed. He was beginning to believe he was losing his mind.

He stepped back inside his room, his bare feet making no sound as they fell upon the stone. The rock was so unyielding to the soft flesh of his toes, and he wriggled them, still unaccustomed to this place. Only two years had passed since the fall of Sauron, since the Free Peoples of Middle Earth had reclaimed their right to peace and liberty. To an Elf, the passage of two years meant little, a proverbial drop in an ocean of eternity. Yet, for the first time in his long and experienced life, Legolas was beginning to feel the press of days passing to night. So much had happened in these last years. So much…

The Elf prince slid back into his bed and drew the crisp sheets up and over his chest. Then he drew in breath after breath, closing his eyes and sinking into his pillows. He closed his eyes and vehemently sought to forget the chaos his life had of late become. It had been nearly a year since Aragorn asked him to help rebuild the forests of Ithilien. The dark forces had for centuries strangled the great woods, leaving a dying husk of a once mighty and beautiful land. It had been well enough, he supposed, that the new king of Gondor had approached him with this monumental task. The War of the Ring and all of its dangerous and difficult struggles had been a convenient distraction. It had diverted his attention from the inevitable truth. The Elves were leaving Middle Earth. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien, Lords Elrond and Glorfindel of Rivendell, Elves of each nation, of all types and creeds… they were all gone. Even his father and brothers. Legolas turned over, opening bright blue eyes. Blankly he watched the shadows of the curtains play on the wall with the breeze. Still, some of his kind remained. The Lady Arwen, of course, and her twin brothers, though of late Legolas had not seen them. Some common folk of the Golden Wood. Those of Mirkwood that had resisted the call of the sea. Many of the Elves that still lingered in Middle Earth had joined him in this small colony in Ithilien. And yet… Legolas released a long slow breath. At times, especially lately when the restoration became an endless burden and ruling his newfound people was turned trying by inexperience, he wondered if it might not be better to simply let this go. At times, he felt so alone.

Legolas turned over again to lie on his back. Absently his eyes followed the lines of mortar and sealant worked in between the stones of which the ceiling was composed. The pattern reminded him of a cage, or a net. _Stop this now,_ chided his mind. He drummed his fingers on the bed, frustrated with himself. He was not alone, and though the call of the sea was forever a part of him, he had learned to control it. Though there were moments when he forgot it, it never left his heart, a silent whisper in the back of his mind that sang a tale of gulls crying, of waves crashing, of the whistle of wind rushing over water. Legolas' will was strong enough now to fight, but what truly caused him despair was its black inevitability. Eventually he would lose this war against his fate, even if the battles now were easily won. He thought of his father, of warning words spoken in the heat of an argument. _"Legolas, my son, you think with your heart and not with your head! If you stay in this world, if you live among them, it is your forfeit. They will gain little for your sacrifice. Trapped here, your life will be torn asunder. If the sea-longing does not destroy you, your bonds to these mortals will be a storm that rips from you everything our kind promises. It will not end as you wish it, Legolas. It cannot!"_

The Elf scrubbed his eyes tiredly. Ai, for the terrible paradox into which his life was evolving! Now it was but a faint nightmare of the future, one he could dismiss if he so wished. But he knew it would destroy him. Each day he spent building this colony… he wondered at this choice he had made. What did he hope to accomplish, at any rate? _Defying fate. There is no greater folly!_ Why did he linger in a world that no longer welcomed him?

But as always, when his mind was rendered a storm of turmoil by these matters, he returned to the same answer: his friends. How could he leave them? His long friendship with Aragorn had only grown stronger since the war, since the man had become king. With Arwen, the Queen and Lady Evenstar, he enjoyed long talks and quiet moments. He was one of Faramir's closest and strongest allies, and the two had spent much time together in amiable discussion as they created a nation worthy of the prosperity promised in the Fourth Age. He was not as close with Faramir's lady, a noble maid of Rohan called Éowyn, for to him she still donned the same cold mask that he had witnessed come his arrival in Edoras years prior. But with even Éowyn he found solace and companionship, for though the striking woman bore an air of cold detachment, Legolas had learned her heart was warm and bright. And Gimli… dear Gimli. Legolas winced at his father's booming voice. _"A Dwarf! You forsake your family for a Dwarf?"_ Old prejudices never died, it seemed, and the words had hurt him deeply.

In private, Gimli, as the stout warrior often did, had read Legolas plainly. It was an irritating skill Gimli had developed; it seemed the Elf prince could hide nothing from the perceptive creature. He pictured the small, ruddy creature now, his face dark with thought as he puffed on that putrid pipe of his. They sat in quiet a long while before Gimli finally spoke. _"He says what he does because he loves you. As rude as the King of Mirkwood may be, he is a father at heart."_

A strange thing! Who could have foretold the unlikely alliance between them? The wince slowly became a grin. Though he was much troubled by the ebb and flow of things around him, he treasured his time with Gimli, when they argued and bantered over the merits of Elves and Dwarves and trees and rocks, when they sat quietly in companionable contemplation, secure in a relationship that required no masks or formalities. He treasured his time with them all. What was it that Merry the Hobbit had said when he had first seen the sea? _"You must not go to the Havens, Legolas. There will always be some folk, big or little, and even a few wise Dwarves like Gimli, who need you."_

Legolas sighed. The conflict within always ended as thus, with this hope. He was needed. And if not, he _needed_ them. It was enough for now to placate the anguish within his slowly tearing heart.

He only feared the day when it would not be.

And so he tried once again to sleep. He lay and thought of Mirkwood, the great trees restored to their former beauty and majesty. Green leaves singing to his kindred spirit, boughs strong and protective. His mind wandered to Ithilien, to this hurting forest. Its melody was darker, weaker, but he and every Elf that struggled to return to it light heard its call. Therein came the true predicament, the actual source of his anguish this eve. As it was the night before this, and two nights ago as well. Legolas closed his eyes and fought to isolate this tension that denied him rest. An inkling of evil. The caress of a threat, like the smell of an ominous black storm about ready to sunder the land. For days this had plagued him, but he could neither make sense of the feeling nor credit it with any validity. His colleagues and comrades in Ithilien appeared relaxed and oblivious, but for all his effort, he could not convince himself this foul premonition was the product of exhaustion. The Elf rolled over once more, tucking his arms under his pillows. He thought he heard voices on the wind, angry tones lined with malice and thinly veiled ambition. A black future. In a heart beat, it was silent. Legolas buried his face into his pillows and cursed his imagination. He was not an Elf gifted in foresight. This was undoubtedly borne from exhaustion and stress. Still… _I am going mad._

He lay in a numb trance for a bit, trying to sink into a thoughtless, dreamless daze. Lethargically, sleep emerged from the void for him. Even so, a long while passed before the Elf slipped away.

* * *

There was a knock at the door.

Legolas sprung up from bed so quickly that he wondered briefly if he had slept at all. He gasped and glanced around, grotesquely disoriented. He could not recall dreaming, but the haze of what must have been a terrible nightmare was slow to release him. A blink and a gasp.

"Lord Legolas?"

Slowly he regained his breath. A terrible knot of panicked fear slowly that was once his stomach unwound, and he struggled to slow his thundering heart. His equanimity, so characteristic of an Elf, was fleeting.

"Sir?" It was Velathir, his aide. The elder Elf's muffled voice was filled with concern. It was very unlike his lord to not answer immediately. "Are you well, sir?"

Legolas shook his head as if to clear it. Astounded, he slid from the mess of sheets and stood. So rarely had he felt this riled! "Yes, Velathir," he called. His voice sounded bizarrely alien to his ears. "I am fine." His long legs devoured the distance between himself and the large oak doors. He grasped the cold knob and pulled open the thick slabs. The aide appeared before him, pristine and calm. A disturbed and concerned looked passed over his dark eyes. "What is it?"

Velathir spoke quickly. "It is Prince Faramir, my Lord. He requests your presence immediately."

Legolas' smooth brow furrowed in confusion. "For what purpose?" he asked softly.

The Lórien Elf shook his head blankly. "I know not, my Lord."

Legolas stepped back into his room, shaking away the remnants of sleep from his irritatingly muddled mind. "Tell him I will be with him momentarily," he ordered, and Velathir nodded before ducking from the room and closing the door. The prince glanced to the window. The last shadows of night clung to the land, and the first light of dawn shed gold over the leaves and stones. Legolas shook his head. He really had not slept.

He dressed quickly, methodically but without conscious direction. From his cluttered and tired mind he pushed all other concerns. It was still quite early, too early for the day's business to begin. He was to meet with Faramir for lunch that day and discuss the plans for new housing in Ithilien for men and Elves alike. Legolas doubted the mundane and simple matter had inexplicably and unexpectedly become so pressing that Faramir would wake him for it. His thoughts raced with the possibilities as he placed his feet into his boots. He wrapped his belt, the one his father had given him when he had come of age, around his waist tightly, securing the buckle. He smoothed his long, flaxen hair quickly before gracefully exiting his room.

The manor of the Elves was quiet. Many had not yet risen, and those who had began the day's activity with no hustle or bustle. Legolas nodded briskly to those of his colony he encountered in the corridors as he quickly made his way to the entrance hall. In the blink of an eye the troubled young archer had transformed into the stoic Elf lord. Legolas had never counted himself overly regal. He lacked his father's stern decorum and attention to detail. He felt uncomfortable delegating orders to Elves many years his senior, and he lacked the gall to rule a kingdom expertly with a tight hand as Thranduil had done for so many years. Centuries of training in the ways of the court and war had done little to aid him; the natural talent to lead was simply not there. Still, he did his best to guide what remained of Elf-kind on Middle Earth. They looked to him, the son of the last king of Elves, the friend and comrade of the King of Gondor, a hero of the War of the Ring. He tried very hard to be what they desired, to be who they needed.

To them, he was infallible. He did not like the image, but he also did not disarm them of it. His father had always told him respect was a valuable tool, but adoration and deification forever tied a people to its leader. Rebuilding Ithilien was a colossal task, and it required the cooperation of every Elf, man, and Dwarf involved. He could not appear to have doubts about their purpose here, even when the sea-calling assailed him with uncertainty. Even now, when this strange and persistent warning pulsed all around him, he could not afford to seem weak.

But Faramir was far too astute. "Are you well, Legolas?" asked the young lord upon seeing his Elven friend. Legolas was shaken by how easily Faramir had detected his distress. Faramir was quite bright, with intelligent eyes and a lean face that portrayed a rarely false air of seriousness.

The Elf drew in a deep breath. "Aye, Faramir. My dreams have been dark of late, but they are so without reason and I am weary of it." A look of concern crossed the man's lightly bearded face, and at seeing it, Legolas went on, desperate to change the subject. "You have arrived most suddenly. Do tell me: is there ill news in Emyn Arnen that has wrested from you sleep this night?"

Faramir's face grew dark, and the years returned to his face. The two lords had recently grown close, bound by both friendship and allegiance to Aragorn and a common goal. Legolas greatly respected Faramir. The man had an analytical mind, the sort that was naturally conscientious about even the most mundane of matters, that could easily parse emotion from purpose and see clearly. He had a brilliant intellect, one Legolas knew had been molded and nourished by Gondor's massive libraries of lore and Gandalf's encouraging hand. The Elf greatly admired him. At times, he felt hampered by memory of Boromir, Faramir's brother who had died during the war. He worried that he would one day bear the resentment the younger of Denethor's sons might hold for him, as he was one of the few that witnessed Boromir's demise and failed to stop it. He also thought perhaps he made Faramir slightly uncomfortable, noting awkward silences when Faramir made a pointed effort at trying to ignore the Elf's presence. Although he did not know why, Faramir's guarded actions around Legolas at times heightened the Elf's guilt over Boromir's death. However, they both cared too much for their friendship to allow the ghosts of the past to challenge it.

Faramir grasped Legolas' arm and drew the young prince away from the growing crowd of soldiers and pages. His voice was barely a whisper. "Word reached me but a few hours ago. Cair Andros has been attacked."

Legolas stopped suddenly. Shock mulled over him. "Attacked?" he repeated incredulously. "By whom?"

Faramir's face twisted into an angry, confused scowl. "I know not. A wounded soldier was found outside my manor. The town is burning, razed. No indication of survivors."

The pale face of the Elf blanched further. More than five hundred peasants, tradesmen, and soldiers inhabited the outpost. A slow rage was beginning to shake him, uncurling from the pit of his stomach. If no one survived, the attack was a massacre, a cowardly slaughter. Legolas tightened his hand into a fist. "No survivors?"

The other shook his head sadly. "I pray the reports are wrong."

Legolas felt weak with alarm and rage. "Have you informed the King?"

Faramir nodded curtly. "I have sent forth my fastest riders to Minas Tirith. But I hope you agree that we cannot wait for a response. We must take action. If some yet live, they face terrible odds should the enemy return. Will you ride with me?"

_Perhaps I never awoke… Perhaps this is a nightmare still…_ "Of course, Faramir. I can spare some warriors as well, but not enough to support a charge if – "

"Hopefully it will not come to that," Faramir said resolutely. The lord of Ithilien closed his eyes. It was clear he as well had slept little that night. "We leave as soon as you are ready."

Legolas nodded slowly, digesting the situation with a numbed mind. "If your men have not yet eaten, they are welcomed to the dining hall. It is early, but the cooks have surely begun the day's work."

The two lords were silent then, watching the halls of the wood Elf lord come alive with this new day. Golden spirals of sun shot through the windows, bright and cheery with dawn. All around came the ordered commotion of the Elven colony. Men and the Firstborn melded, joined in their work to build together a life in these woods.

Legolas shook his head and narrowed his eyes darkly. Neither he nor Faramir spoke a moment, but both knew the fear that was left unvoiced. All for which they had aspired, all for which they had labored… Who now threatened their peace?

Then the silence became unbearable. Faramir clapped Legolas on the shoulder, his expession soft despite his worries, his grip warm and friendly. "Thank you, Legolas," he murmured softly and sincerely. After he walked quickly to his men. Legolas watched him speak to his company quietly and felt the world close upon him. A cold, fall breeze pushed through the open gate doors and brushed against him. It smelled of fire and burnt flesh. The fair Elf stifled a shudder before tending to his duties.


	2. Signs of Life

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER TWO: SIGNS OF LIFE**

The ride was long and arduous, dominated by a silence stiff with anxiety, anger, and fear. In the quiet, hope remained. Their small company followed the Anduin north with great speed as Faramir was terribly worried that the grim prognosis that none of the villagers had survived the attack was false and those that remained would desperately require aid. A vacuous emptiness had settled upon them, and no one had the strength to break it, as if with speech the tiny speck of faith each garnered within would fade and leave nothing but a horrible and undeniable truth. They would not be in time. They were already too late.

Legolas breathed deeply, his keen eyes quickly scanning their surroundings. The stench of smoke and death had grown steadily stronger, its putrid scent a trail that would undoubtedly lead them to Cair Andros. Though the others could not see, he observed the haze forming on the horizon, the sort of bleary and scorched air that reeked of a smoldering blaze. From this vantage he could not detect the town, for though they were now atop the rolling hills that eventually descended into the river basin, the tall trees obscured his view. The woods were eerily silent and the fair Elf wondered at their queer stillness. The dark warning in his heart had grown steadily stronger with each step their company had taken since leaving Ithilien. His face he kept calm, so as not to disturb the others, but he knew something dangerous awaited their arrival.

Arod was still and erect beneath him. The great horse sensed the malice as clear as he, for this animal, borne of the skillful breeding methods of the kingdom of Rohan, was no ordinary beast. Gifted to Legolas during the War of the Ring by Éomer, now King of the Riddermark, Arod had formed a powerful and loving bond with his Elven rider. The two had braved many perils together since the white stallion had come to Legolas' care. Only in death would the prince abandon his valiant mount.

Animals were oft more perceptive than men and even Elves. Arod pricked his ears, listening perhaps to some distant cry or squeal. Legolas listened as well, but sensed nothing. His fingers stroked through Arod's gray mane gently. "Peace, my friend," he whispered in Elvish. "We will know soon enough."

Their company continued down the sloping land, which was still mostly lush with the verdant green of summer. Faramir had chosen the most trusted of his rangers and men to accompany them, and they were a well-seasoned lot, most veterans of the war. Legolas recognized a few faces, in particular that of Beregond, head of the White Guard. The man was of a kindly disposition, always helpful and never arrogant. His face was square and adorned by a graying beard. A long scar, a relic of a battle long past, stretched from his left eyebrow and down to his ear. Eyes that were inquisitive and quick observed all from under a hood of bushy eyebrows. Beregond held the king's highest esteem, as he had been delegated with quite an important duty: protecting the Steward of Gondor, even if it meant sacrificing his life for Faramir. Now the man rode beside his charge on a horse of brown, speaking to Faramir in hushed tones. On the Prince of Ithilien's opposite side was Mablung, another experienced ranger. Wavy brown hair framed a round face. Legolas knew little of him, only that he had been instrumental in saving his captain's life when Faramir had been wounded during the siege of Osgiliath. It was clear from the friendly loyalty and respect in Faramir's company that their captain was a man of great wisdom, dignity, and admiration.

Of his own, Legolas was a bit more uncertain. For the group he had selected Tathar, one of his father's guards who had chosen to remain on Middle Earth when all of Mirkwood had emptied. The blond Elf was many years his senior, but Legolas was comfortable enough around him to speak his mind and share his fears. He was a mighty and seasoned warrior, one of Mirkwood's finest archers. The prince had been greatly relieved to know such a loyal and worthy Elf would lend his hand in Ithilien's restoration. A few others from King Thranduil's army rode with them as well, and in their hands Legolas would readily place his life. It was a pact of devotion that had long governed the workings of Mirkwood's forces. The Elven nation had been too close to the choking black of Dol Guldur for too long, and the prince himself had witnessed many Elves die over the years when the forces of the dark pushed closer to all that remained beautiful in the once proud forests of Greenwood the Great. In such horrible conditions, no Elf could afford not to trust his comrades.

However, of the twenty Elves joining him on this journey, the rest were a bit of a mystery. Names, of course, he knew. But of their skill, of their courage, of their hearts, he was less confident. These were citizens of Rivendell and Lothlórien, whose armies had not readily tasted battle for perhaps centuries, whose customs were different from Mirkwood's own. He did not doubt their allegiance, but he was uneasy around them nonetheless. Here again they expected a leader when he was naught but a soldier. Would they abandon him should his leadership prove less than worthy? He banished those thoughts. _This is not Mirkwood. Nor is it Rivendell or Lórien. Do not let the different colors of our banners divide us!_

Every Elf in Ithilien would fight and die with him if need be. That was what he believed. Until now, there had been no occasion to test such a thought. He wished one had never come.

The Anduin was calmly rushing south, the waters bright, clear, and cold. Summer no longer warmed her waves. These forests were newly touched by the changing season, bright oranges, yellows, and reds glowing as the sun streamed through the canopy overhead. Their group had assumed a standard position as they pushed through the maze of conifers and oaks. A column of horse and rider stretched along a narrow path, so as to both minimize noise and muddle the tracks they left. Should enmey forces follow their trail, they would be perplexed as to exactly how many soldiers formed their company. An old trick, but an effective one.

A message came from the scouts at the forefront. Legolas nudged Arod forward urgently, seeking to join Faramir and Beregond as they received the information from a scout.

The young man shook his head sadly. "I've had men searching these woods, Lord, for any that might have fled to their security. We have found nothing."

That was discouraging. Cair Andros was an important outpost for Gondor as it was situated rather strategically on a small island in the center of the wide and grand Anduin. If the retreating citizens had not found refuge in the surrounding hills and forests, it meant they had been trapped on the island. Faramir was obviously considering the very same bleak notion. "Does the bridge seem safe?"

The scout reined in tighter his mount, for the horse was prancing about quite nervously. Legolas felt Arod tense beneath him. "We saw no obvious signs of weakness, Captain. It appears sturdy enough for use."

Faramir's eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Tell the men to hold their positions, and do so quietly. I would like to remain hidden as long as we are able." The young man gave a quick salute before kicking his skittish horse into a trot, heading back through the thinning woods to the head of the column.

Legolas drew Arod aside Faramir. Black and dark were the songs of these trees though the day was bright with color and life. "What say you, Legolas?" Faramir inquired softly. The man had not missed the Elf's wary, scanning eyes and tense form. "Do you perceive any threat?"

Legolas strained his senses, listening, watching, waiting. Yet nothing more was delivered to him aside from the cautious melody of the wind pushing against these ancient trees. The silence of the animals in the woods disturbed him. "I know not. This land seems frightened, but of what I cannot say."

Beregond shook his head. "My Lord," he began, holding Faramir's gaze, "we know little of our enemy here. We must execute extreme caution. It would be a simple task for them to lure us across that bridge, trap us on the island, and then ambush us." Legolas watched the man clench his jaw in determination. His statements were not meant to dissuade his lord and captain from the rescue; rather, the experienced soldier was frustrated with their obvious predicament. The Elf sympathized completely.

Faramir lowered his gaze to the back of Hasufel's neck. The great gray warhorse as well seemed on edge. It had taken some time, Legolas remembered with a private smile, for the ranger to tame the fiery animal. Once loaned to Aragorn during the War of the Ring, Hasufel had been made a wedding present of sorts for Faramir from the brother of his wife, Éowyn. Though Faramir had been known throughout Gondor for being able to govern both man and beast, the ranger had once revealed to Legolas his vexation concerning the stubborn Hasufel. Now, after two years, the two had seemed to reach some sort of truce. Hasufel was truly a great horse, though not as tame or willing as Arod. However, what he lacked in obedience he certainly accounted for with fiery personality.

"Sir, if I may conjecture, now is the time to act if we so intend," offered Mablung. "Night will inevitably be upon us. At least at this hour the sun is still our ally, and we can clearly survey the situation."

Faramir nodded at the suggestion. He looked up, holding Legolas' bright gaze, as if searching the Elf for doubts unspoken or knowledge hidden. Legolas' face was placid as he declared, "Time is short. If the enemy is so cunning as to make a lure and trap of this attack, I doubt we are safer here than on the island. We have come this far, Faramir."

The Prince of Ithilien wondered at this a moment, his piercing eyes narrowed in distant thought. In the silence, the strange stasis of life in these woods seemed especially unnerving, and Legolas angrily considered the deafening quiet a veiled threat. _This place reeks of danger, though whether passed or imminent…_

Eventually Faramir's expression hardened, and a furious glint came to his gray eyes. "This crime against Gondor will _not_ go without retribution. Let us ride in, but with guards upon the flank and rear. All shall bear arms."

Mablung gave his commander a curt salute before whipping his horse around and heading to the front of the line. Beregond's weathered face became dark and tense with anxious excitement before he too rode off to issue his subordinates orders.

Legolas drew in a deep breath, feeling unusually tired and jittery. Two years of peace had dulled his taste for battle, and he appreciated the peril of this situation far too keenly. He checked his sword to be sure that the blade came smoothly from the scabbard. The familiar weight on his back reminded him of his full compliment of finely fletched Elven arrows and two white knives to which he had thankfully taken a whetstone just days prior. He was well equipped for a battle he had prayed would not come.

"What are your orders, my prince?" It was Tathar, and from the set of his jaw, it was clear the Silvan Elf's intuition had already alerted him to the company's status. Dark eyes watched Legolas intently, yet the young prince did not miss the glow of exhilaration in them. It reminded him of days of old, when he had been but a child eagerly accompanying his elders on one of his first hunts.

"We move to the island," Legolas quietly said. His quick eyes glanced down the line of mounted archers under his command. "There is no indication of an enemy presence, but we will take no chances. Guard well our rear, Tathar, and have them ready to attack on my command."

"Yes, sir!" the Elf declared with the smallest bit of a knowing smile. The gesture eased Legolas. After offering his prince a nod, Tathar directed his horse back to the group of Elves patiently awaiting instruction. Legolas watched them a moment, observing his people test bow strings and examine arrows. _His_ people. He did not know if the thought pleased him.

Then they were moving. The silence that again descended over their company was wrought with apprehension and muddled hope. None knew what terror might await them in the once peaceful outpost, and the fear and worry was thick and heavy in the air. Legolas felt his body tense, his muscles tight with adrenaline and the expectation of exertion, his senses diligent in their unwavering scan of their surroundings. The scent of smoke, so strong and close now, repulsed him, the grime stinging in his eyes. It descended upon them, creating a mist of hazy heat and stink that obscured from them their path. Arod grunted and Legolas leaned down to pet the horse's smooth neck. In reality, he felt no more sure of this than his mount.

They reached the river. Faramir issued the order to cross the bridge, and they proceeded with heavy hearts and infuriated minds. Unease permeated through the group as they directed their horses along the stone road in pairs. The smoke was thick now; a few of the men choked, though whether from lack of breath or from the terrible stench Legolas could not tell. The gray, misty plume covered the bridge like a funeral shroud, hanging down to caress the dark water below with wicked, wispy fingers. The hollow lapping of the water as waves broke on the feet of the bridge and the steady clopping of hooves against stone was incredibly loud. No one dared to speak.

The silence endured. Worry became shock. Shock became horror. And still there was nothing. _Nothing._

Legolas gasped. Something inside him began to throb as the mist parted.

Cair Andros, once a thriving fort with hundreds of healthy, happy denizens, had been completely and utterly destroyed.

Along the stone road there must have once existed a bustling market place, made wealthy and prosperous through trade and devoted work, content in the quiet peace that had claimed much of Middle Earth. All that remained of that peace was a line of burnt buildings, the debris spreading far and wide. Scorched by flame, the structures had been devoured by heat and left to collapse as wood cracked and stone crumbled. Blackened frames poked from the rubble like broken bones that had punctured the skin of a corpse. The path was cluttered with wreckage, for nothing, no house or inn or stable, had been left standing, many tipping forward to cover the road with their destroyed innards. Tables, chairs, and clothes lay strewn everywhere, some burning still, as though these simple articles were the last of the city to abandon the fight. The smoke hung so heavily and so low that the sun's light barely pierced the oppressive veil. Blood covered the street in a ghastly river, corpses strewn about like worthless rag dolls. Most had been gutted. It reeked of blood and death and stale, violent sex.

All was still with disbelief. No one could direct his eyes elsewhere, each examining the wreckage in all of its gruesome, horrid detail. Legolas could find no air to breathe, a vacuum of terror and disgust closing tightly about him. There was no sound, no feeling. This paralyzing shock struck him, and his heart held tight in his chest as his numbed mind fought to deny. So desperately he fought the terrible, pressing reality! Perhaps if he closed his eyes, perhaps if he wished vehemently enough, he would find himself back in his cool, soft bed, waking from troubled sleep. But there was no such easy escape. The destruction lay bare before him, and for all the want of his heart, he could do naught but stare.

For a long while no one had the audacity to speak. It seemed an eternity as the despair ate at all of them, as their souls shriveled in bearing witness to such brutal and violent destruction. Then came the sound of gagging; one of Faramir's younger men had lost his composure and had stumbled from his horse to the ground, heaving. Legolas' eyes slipped shut. "Ai, Elbereth…" he whimpered, imploring that this somehow not be true. All those innocent people… Women and children… So many… He closed his eyes against the tears.

Who could have done such a thing?

Troubled hearts pounded, straining for something more. Yet there was nothing but the suffocating silence and smoke and the remains of a people slaughtered.

It was Faramir who finally regained himself enough to speak. His voice hardly wavered, though Legolas could tell the young man was exerting himself to keep his fury and grief in check. "Fan out," he declared as resolutely as he could, "and search for survivors. There may yet be men alive… buried perhaps." Legolas bowed his head but found no hope in Faramir's words. This vicious force had come to destroy, and it had done so completely and utterly. The Elf prince had seen and experienced much in his long life, but never something so… arrogantly cruel and atrocious. He shuddered. _Evil. Evil has come to Middle Earth once more._

* * *

They were sluggish in their task, and understandably so, for it was a terrible one. Their company was comprised of approximately thirty souls, and they had split up to encompass the entire city in their search. Cair Andros was not overly large, but the task was strenuous and difficult as many of the buildings eaten through by fire had collapsed, leaving large heaps of smoking debris through which to dig. The day had worn to late afternoon, and they had nothing to show for their efforts but bloodied hands, worn bodies, and wearied hearts.

Legolas sighed. Soot covered him, painting his ashen face with gray smudges, leaving his normally pristine appearance uncharacteristically filthy. His fingers were caked with the grime as he shoved a broken and scarred table from the wreckage of yet another ruined house. Flakes of charred wood fell from a smoking beam overhead, dropping into his hair like black snow. He wondered for a moment on the safety of venturing further inside. The flame set to this house had smashed through to the second floor, eating through the ceiling and reducing the eastern wall to a mound of fallen stone and split beams. Miraculously, the western side had been left relatively intact. However, the second story overhead, without support on one side, had begun to sag and sink. The whole structure whined and moaned precariously.

The Elf glanced inside, but it was very dark. The sun was sinking below the horizon, leaving shadows to skulk and grasp the world. He wrinkled his nose. How he longed for a cool breeze to blow the horrid smoke and release them from this stench! Yet the earth ignored his plea, and the wretched plume hung over them, relentlessly plaguing his nostrils and hindering his sight. He stood in the door, debating on the consequences of continuing. The grisly images from previous homes had burned into him. Many of the poor folk had been in bed when the attackers had struck. Most had not even made it outside their front doors before their houses were invaded. He had seen men, stabbed and mutilated, holding still to swords and daggers in what was certainly a last, terrified defense of their families. He found women, naked and bleeding, clearly ravaged and beaten before their throats had been cut. And children… The fair Elf clenched a fist. The disgust and sorrow was quickly melding together within him in a storm of fury. At first he had clung to some shred of hope that their search would not be in vain, that buried and trapped in this nightmare was somebody in need of their aid. But as the hours had worn away, despair had stomped out that faint wish, and he had slowed in his frantic efforts and taken time to pull some of the bodies from the wreckage into the street. He draped cloth on those he could, felt for those he could not, and whispered an Elvish blessing for each soul that had passed. He did not know if Faramir intended to bury the citizens, but even so, it seemed terribly wrong to leave them in the prison where they had been so viciously murdered.

Legolas looked down, leaning tiredly against the door. The stoic mask he had worn all day for the benefit of his people and Faramir's men was beginning to slip, but he was too tired and depressed to care much. No warning. No salvation. Inexplicably he felt guilty for these poor people and what they had endured. He wished he could have somehow done more. _There is no cause for that,_ reminded the logical voice of his mind. _You could not have known._ His heart, however, accepted no such rationale, content to weep in grief. He was exhausted enough to let it.

He lingered there, breathing, trying hard to find the strength to keep looking. To keep fighting. He decided to move on; this house seemed empty, and he did not know if he could tolerate another gruesome death scene. But his weary feet would not carry him. A needling voice came from the back of his mind, a voice saturated in worry and shame. Fate would certainly turn against him if he should leave this one house unchecked. _Here_ would be the one person left living, he just knew it in his gut. And he could not walk away from that small, nearly impossible chance.

So he walked inside, over fallen chairs and broken furniture. Gracefully he navigated through the maze of wreckage, pushing aside what he could and stepping over what he could not. The second floor whimpered in stress, dumping a load of soot on his already dirty body. He could not stifle a paroxysm of coughing, the foul tasting stuff invading his nose and mouth. When that passed, he drew in a deep breath of cleaner air and rubbed his eyes.

Someone was crying.

His heart jumped into his throat, a rush of excitement leaving his head spinning and his pulse thundering. For a moment he doubted his senses, waiting, holding his breath and praying that the sound would come again. Surely he had not imagined it! But it did come again, a muffled wail. Immediately he located it.

With renewed vigor spiking through his tired body like lightning, Legolas bounded forth, shoving away anything and everything blocking his way. The high-pitched sobbing was coming from the kitchen, where a large, scratched oak table had been pushed up against the wall, obviously for protection. "Help has come!" he announced. "Please, hold on a bit longer!"

The screaming continued. It was obviously a child. Panic pulsed through Legolas as he frantically scrambled to the small area, climbing over the counter. His feet struck the floorboards with a soft thud, and a terrified shriek followed. Legolas felt the color drain from his face. He was standing in a puddle of blood. His eyes followed the gory trail under the overturned table.

Disgust barely had the time to register. With strong hands, he pulled it back.

His eyes pierced the shadows. Pale flesh stained red. A ripped and ruined dress. Red hair. The woman was laying on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the hard floor, her green, soulless eyes wide open yet unseeing. Legolas felt nausea claim him, selfishly grateful that she was prone so that he could not see the substance of her demise. A great pool of blood lay under her.

A piercing shriek broke the silence. In the corner sat a little girl. Though much of her form was covered by shadow, Legolas' heightened sight could perceive her easily enough. She appeared to be no more than four or five years old. A mess of wild red hair adorned her small head, sticking up haphazardly. Her chubby face was streaked with tears, grime, and blood. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. Her little hands covered her eyes as she sobbed and wailed.

His heart broke. He dropped to a crouch. "Shh, child. All is well. I will not hurt you," he declared softly, comfortingly. He dared not move, uncertain if any motion would startle her. He surely did not want to traumatize her further! "You are safe now."

The girl cried for a bit longer, but then stopped and peered through the cracks between her fingers. When her wide, teary eyes came upon him, he offered a gentle smile. They did not speak immediately, Legolas keeping his body perfectly still so as not to frighten her. Finally she murmured. "Are… are you a ghost?" Her Common was sloppy and slurred with youth and fear.

The thought amused him slightly, and the corner of his mouth turned in a smile. "No." She had obviously never seen one of his kind before, and his natural glow baffled and amazed her. "I am an Elf," he said evenly.

The child's face scrunched up in terror. She started to weep again. Legolas could hardly stand to hear her wails of anguish and winced at their volume. He crept closer, extending one hand to her. "Do not cry, little one," he pleaded, shaking his head helplessly. "Let me take you out of here. Surely you would like that?" The little girl only cried harder. In her gasping sobs Legolas could make out the word "mother". The Elf grimaced inwardly as he discovered the truth behind his fear. This was the dead woman's daughter. He could not even begin to imagine her pain.

There came a thunder of feet outside. Legolas peered over the wreckage to see a few men standing at the door. "Lord Legolas," one with deep, baritone voice called, "we heard crying! Are you well?"

"Summon your captain," ordered the Elf firmly. "I have found a child."

The two men glanced between each other, clearly surprised. Then one called, "Aye, sir!" He disappeared from the door.

The other stepped inside, and the house groaned. Legolas shook his head quickly. "Stay back. This house is unstable!" The man stopped in his tracks and watched helplessly. Then the Elf returned his attention to the girl. She had squirmed further into the corner. He obviously terrified her, and he frankly found no fault with that given the situation. He calmed himself and turned his hand over, showing her his open fingers and palm in what he hoped was a disarming action. He forced a smile to his face. "What is your name, little one?" he asked, his mind racing to find a way to calm her.

She sniffled and turned her face into the wall. But she did speak. "Fethra."

His heart shuddered in relief. He smiled at her. "Fethra, my name is Legolas."

She swallowed. "Leglass."

He gave a small laugh. "Good enough, little one. I promise I will do nothing to hurt you. You must trust me, Fethra. We are not safe here." He held her gaze, determined not to let her go now. "Just take my hand."

"Momma won't wake up," the girl whispered. Tears welled in her bright, green eyes.

Legolas ached inside, panic swirling within him as the second floor cracked and creaked overhead. He said, "Your mother is in a wonderful place now, Fethra. She would want you to be safe, would she not?" The little child nodded fearfully, her face puckered up with a barely restrained sob. "Come with me. I will keep you safe."

A board snapped and the ceiling lurched down a few inches. Legolas jerked, but did not look up, knowing that if he should frighten her now they would lose her. _I will not lose her!_ He held his breath, praying that there would be time enough to escape this house, that she would trust him enough for him to save her.

Finally she reached out a trembling, little hand. This she slowly placed in his open palm. Nearly sagging in relief, he closed his long fingers about her tiny digits. Wide, fearful eyes regarded him. "I'm scared," she admitted, her voice shaking.

"Nothing will harm you," Legolas assured. He reached out his other arm and moved closer, dipping his knee into the chilly puddle of blood on the floor. The girl hesitated a moment more, but it was clear that the promise of security his arms provided won over her fear of him. She launched her small, quaking form into his embrace. Burying her face into the warmth of his shoulder, she began to wail again.

The Elf wasted no time. Wrapping his arms tightly around the precious burden, he propelled himself up with strong legs. Over the counter he flew, graceful and elegant despite his panic. The ceiling was crumbling, raining splinters of wood and dust upon him. It snapped. He bounded through the mess, flying faster than the observing soldier could detect, precariously stepping around the debris on feet swift and light. The supports gave away with a booming and horrific crack, and down came the second floor.

But Legolas was already safely outside. He stood quite some distance from the door, watching as the house destroyed itself. The noise of the collapse was deafening, a great plume of soot, smoke, and debris spraying from the structure. A few rushed breaths of surprise and relief passed, and when it settled, there was nothing left to salvage.

The only thing of any value was in his arms, at any rate.

Faramir jogged up to him. The young captain appeared winded, breathing heavily. He had obviously run here when receiving word from his men of what had happened. Legolas shared with him a pained look of jagged relief and despair. Fethra's cries were quieting, her tiny fists balled in Legolas' hair, her face nuzzled into the nape of his neck.

"Send for the healer immediately," barked Faramir to his men who stood about watching in stupefaction. One broke from his daze and headed off in a run. Then the ranger stepped closer, clearly to get a better look at what Legolas had found, but Fethra was too upset for that, and she pressed her face deeper into Legolas' shoulder, holding onto him with all her strength. "Are you well, Legolas?" Faramir inquired quietly. The Elf only nodded. The ranger looked down and shook his head. "We found no one else."

The words struck hard. Shaken, Legolas wrapped his hand around the little girl's back. He held to her tightly and wondered at the cruelty of fate. To leave an innocent child as the sole survivor of the massacre of her entire city…

He closed his eyes against the tears.


	3. Blood on His Hands

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER THREE: BLOOD ON HIS HANDS**

Evening came, but it was without peace. Both man and Elf were restless, though exhausted emotionally and physically from the day's journey and difficult subsequent events. One of Faramir's rangers had spotted a bit of high land in the fields just outside the town proper. There they had prepared a camp and created a perimeter. The land was not much, but hopefully it would provide an advantage should they be attacked. The prospect of ambush alone was enough to cast an air of unease. But this night it was simply one more worry, one more fear, one more thought that would steal sleep.

Legolas sat cross-legged on the ground beside the healer's tent. In his lap rested Fethra, and the little girl was hungrily devouring some dried meat and fruit. She was quite content now, happily filling her famished body. Legolas smoothed her mussed hair comfortingly as the healer finished with his work. She kicked at elderly man as he checked the dressings he had previously wrapped around a lacerated leg. "Sit still now, Fethra," Legolas admonished, his tone gentle but stern.

The little girl regarded the healer with wary eyes, half a piece of apple in her mouth along with most her fingers. She would allow no one near her, save the Elf, and Legolas was not sure how he felt about that. In the few hours since he had rescued her from the collapsing house, he had become rather protective of her himself. He had little experience with children; few Elves in Mirkwood had chosen to bear to offspring after his own birth given the unstable state of Middle Earth and the race's waning existence in it. He knew even less about the infants of mankind. And yet, despite his nervousness and anxiety, he found himself pleased with this trust she had given him, this tentative bond between them. His heart felt great and warm that she considered him her protector. If he could ease her loss and suffering, then it was reward enough to endure a bit of awkward fumbling.

Such adoration and open faith shone in her red-rimmed eyes as she turned. She looked as though she might begin to cry again at his small scolding. "Sorry, Leglass."

The Elf smiled warmly. She still could not pronounce his name right.

The healer finished his ministrations. "She is well, my Lord. I see no signs of infection, but upon returning to Gondor, she should be examined again for precaution's sake," the man said. Legolas nodded at his assessment, pleased that his charge was relatively intact. Aside from the mild cut on her leg and few benign bruises, the poor girl had escaped the slaughter unscathed. The prince's muddled mind did not want to consider the implications of _why_ or _how_ she had survived. Could luck have been so kind and destiny so compassionate? Had he not been so angered and grief-stricken, he would have been more bothered by it all. As it was, he was simply satisfied at the moment that someone was alive.

He nodded his gratitude to the healer as the other rose. The man afforded them both a sorrowful look that spoke much of his despair where his lips would not. Only one left alive. Only one. Legolas imagined the man's frustration. What use were the skills of a healer when there was no life left for which to care? The man then turned and headed back to the main camp.

No fires had been lit this night for fear they might attract unwanted attention, and the company rested in a tense, sad silence. The night was no comfort to their battered hearts, though the stars shone brightly above. Like a million teardrops they dotted the sky, twinkling their condolences, weeping their sadness. A cool autumn breeze swept over the field, ruffling the waves of drying grass. At least here the air was fresh and crisp, a welcomed change from the stench of smoke and death.

Fethra shivered. Her thumb was stuck in her mouth. Legolas did know for certain, but he believed her to be rather old for such behavior. Still, after what she had endured, he was not about to deny her any solace she sought. He grasped the ends of his dusty cloak and wrapped her tightly in his arms, using the cloth to shield her from the chill. He often forgot the frailty of mortal bodies and their susceptibility to changes in temperature.

"Where do Elves come from?" she suddenly asked. She laid back into his chest, obviously happy for the warmth. Legolas thought her surprisingly calm, given the ill circumstances.

"Well, Fethra, Elves live all over Middle Earth. I am from a great, wide forest far north of here once called Mirkwood," he explained. "Now it is Greenwood the Great." _Eryn Lasgalen. _He heard something in his voice, and it surprised him. It was a touch of longing, of wistful memory.

She was silent a moment. "Do you miss your home, Leglass?" The girl was extremely perceptive for her age.

He was taken aback by her innocent question for a moment, and he thought before answering. "Yes. No one lives there anymore, but I still think about it." _Everyday I think about it._ The Elf drew a deep breath and closed his eyes in weariness. The conflict of emotions within him battered his mind. So tired, memory swept in, taking advantage of his lowered defenses. He heard wind rustling in the trees, the great, wide canopies of his father's kingdom. He heard voices, comrades of old, family and friends. They were all long gone, and he felt alone, horribly alone. And unexpectedly the longing for the sea swelled up within him. He heard the waves lapping against the shore, the cry of gulls, and a voice spoke to him, fathomless, faceless, soundless. But he heard the words and understood their call. Deep inside, something began to throb in agony. Pulsing. Pulsing. Waves beating against the shore. He lost himself in it. Pulsing. _Pulsing_ –

_Come, my son._

"I miss my Momma, Leglass."

He snapped to awareness. He opened his eyes and felt again. The cool breeze on his skin. The smell of fresh air and the sounds of men lowly chatting. The grass beneath him. The child in his arms, begging him to bring back her lost mother. He was _here_, on Middle Earth. The attack had taken him so quickly! Shaken, he drew in a deep breath to calm himself. Never before had it been so vivid, so powerful…

"Leglass," moaned his charge. He looked down, unnerved, frightened, and angry with himself. Tears streamed from Fethra's eyes, and she wept silently, burying her face into chest. "I miss Momma," she whimpered. Legolas helplessly shook his head, his heart straining in muted agony. "I want Momma…"

He could not deny the truth, no matter how much it hurt her. "She is gone, Fethra. I cannot bring her back to you." He squeezed her tighter as she began to cry again in earnest. He could only let her sob, trying to comfort her with soft words and strong arms, but he felt terribly inadequate. He could not change anything! But he forced his fury away and desperately thought back to when he had been young, when he had been upset. His mother had been a glorious, wise, and beautiful Elf, a worthy queen for a powerful nation. She possessed a voice like none other, one that brought laughter and tears to the soul with a simple melody. Whenever he had been distressed, she had sung away his troubles. Then sleep had become an easy matter. How many times had he drifted into dream listening to his mother's sweet melodies? "Did your mother sing to you, Fethra? Do you have a favorite lullaby, little one?"

She was too distraught to answer him, so he picked a song of his own accord, frantic to do something to ease her misery. Then he began to sing softly, rubbing the little girl's heaving back. All Elves were talented singers, and he was no exception. His father had once told him he had inherited his mother's gift for music. His clear voice rang through the silent camp, warding away the demons and bringing a bit of gentle splendor back to a ravaged place. Though the song was in Elvish, it had the desired effect of calming Fethra. Gradually her sobs became sniffles. The song flowed from him, easing both Elf and child, and soon enough, before the ballad had ended, the child had drifted off into slumber.

The Elf prince closed his eyes and silenced his voice, battling his own weariness. He was not so cruel as to move her now; he would not deny the girl the peace she had finally found, so he waited there, sitting still aside the tent. He knew he was being irrational, but he could not dismiss that his slightest movement would disturb her slumber. Blessed by great patience and endurance, he would normally be able to hold such a posture for many hours. But he was tired from riding from Ithilien without repose and searching through the wreckage earlier. He was wearied by countless nights of unrest. A general malaise claimed him, and his body was aching with a dull intensity he had not often experienced. He thought of his trials as a Nine Walker and the many times he had held a weary or wounded Hobbit as he now did Fethra, guarding Frodo from winds on Caradhas, easing Sam in the dark of Moria… He had been a silent sentinel, a steady protector, a tireless warder. He missed those days as well at times, for though the journey had been dark and difficult, he had formed such tight bonds with the Fellowship of the Ring. Then he would never have considered his own comfort over those he had sworn to defend. Then he would never have doubted the others' need of his eyes and bow. Then he would never have questioned his worth. But he did not have the worries then as he did now.

Torn by such thoughts, he sat a long time in silence. Eärendil winked at him knowingly and sadly. So distant, safe from the toils of life and death… he envied the star its peace, its ancient wisdom. Long fingers absently stroked the head of ruddy curls nestled against his shoulder. The small chubby face, recently washed clean of the dirt and grime, was a picture of contentment, long eyelashes pressed tightly to soft skin. The Elf brushed a stray hair from the child's cheek with his thumb, amazed at the simple picture of beauty. She was endearing and entrancing, and he was in awe of this simple feeling of compassion and love come over him. Her trust of him was like a balm to a weary soul. She cared not for his inexperience with children. She shed light enough for them both at the moment.

A zephyr flowed up over the hill, pushing aside the loose fabric of Fethra's stained brown dress. A glint caught Legolas' eyes. He moved the ripped collar down a bit from the child's neck. There was a long, silver chain, the sort that might hold a pendant or some other such trinket. Curious, he carefully pulled free from the folds of her clothing the rest of the object. Sure enough, it was a necklace of sorts, though clearly intended for an adult as it hung far down her chest. There was indeed a pendant. It was a diamond-shaped dark red gem no larger than half the length of his thumb. The back of the gem had been cut flat and encased in glimmering silver. Legolas narrowed his eyes. He was not very knowledgeable of the science of metallurgy, despite his father's interest in wealth and jewels. Still, he had never before seen such a rock. It seemed to glow of its own volition, shining a dim, deep red quietly. He held the pendant so it rested in his open hand. The light washed over his palm like blood.

Legolas released a slow breath. How would a child come to possess such a thing of majesty? It seemed no ordinary trinket, far too elegantly crafted to belong to simple folk. A strange feeling came over him, leaving his body tingling and his mind dazed. It was not unlike the very same sense of unease that had been plaguing him for days, but this sensation was without the itching need to do _something_ to remedy it. This simple stone… it was beautiful, drawing his willing eyes into its crimson deaths, and he willingly obliged its call for his attention. With his index finger he traced the tiny curve of it in wonderment and shameless curiosity. It was quite silly, but he expected to feel heat. Like a tiny heart beating in his palm, he thought there would be warmth and life. But it was merely a stone, and he was letting his frivolous and fatigued imagination have far too much control.

"Prince Legolas?"

He nearly lurched in surprise. He looked up, collecting himself quickly and dropping the pendant to Fethra's chest.

It was Tathar, and the elder Elf enveloped his prince with a concerned gaze. Legolas felt embarrassment twist at his innards. He respected Tathar like none other, for long had the warrior been his mentor in thought and war. They were silent a moment before Tathar spoke again. "Lord Faramir requests your presence. He has found something he believes you should see."

The request bothered Legolas, and after a brief pause, he realized why. He did not want to leave Fethra in the care of another. Though he trusted Tathar with his life, the little girl hardly knew the warrior. Would she be frightened if she awoke without warning and found Legolas gone? Would it too easily remind her of all she had just lost? _You fool,_ seethed his mind. _You are a prince and a lord. You have obligations beyond this silly task you have taken upon yourself. Up, now, and see what Faramir needs of you!_

As if sensing his prince's indecision, Tathar offered a warm, friendly smile. "I will watch her. Should she awake, I will send for you." The wise Elf crouched beside the two. A twinkle came to his dark eyes. "I have sensed your troubled heart ere we left Ithilien. You wear it plainly enough, with such dark eyes and long face! Your father would not approve of this despair, my prince," he chided, a light tone of mirth betraying the gravity words. "You are our lord. You need not worry if that is enough to justify our trust in you. It is." Legolas bowed his head, struggling to find some semblance of peace. Tathar rested a hand on the crown of his head, just as he had done centuries prior when Legolas had been but a child learning the ways of war. "You are your father's son, Legolas. A king's son. Never forget that."

It felt so good to hear that. It was like reaching through the dense murk of sorrow and doubt in his heart and grasping tranquility. He smiled. "Thank you, Tathar." He checked to make sure Fethra was deep in her rest before handing the precious bundle to his friend. The other accepted her easily and then nodded resolutely. Gracefully, regaining his stoic air, Legolas pushed himself from the ground and went off in search of Faramir.

He found his friend speaking in hushed tones to Beregond and Mablung in a small huddle away from the rest of the camp. He approached on soft footfalls, slipping through the blades of tall grass like the wind streaming silently across a meadow. Faramir turned, his skills as a ranger alerting him to the nearly silent approach of the Elf.

Legolas regarded his friend with weary, understanding eyes. Faramir was greatly angered and greatly troubled. But before the archer could speak, Faramir asked, "How fares the child?"

"She finally sleeps, though with much sadness and toil pressing upon her." Legolas' inquisitive eyes grew hard with quelled anger. "What is it you have found?"

Faramir restrained ire of his own as he stepped aside and allowed Legolas to see beyond him. There, resting almost innocently on the ground, was a flag. The banner was bright red, lined with gold on its top and bottom. The design of the standard was immediately recognizable. A picture of that same golden serpent had flown high in the wind at the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Legolas clenched his teeth. Fury washed over him, hot and wretched. "Easterlings," he hissed.

"Aye," said Beregond, his tone tight and terse.

The four said nothing then for quite some time, each staring at that simple red banner and fuming. They all clearly knew the implications of such a finding. Legolas dug his fingers into his palm as rage pounded in his heart and head. He saw blood, blood as red and bright and violent as that cursed flag, wash the streets of Cair Andros, spill from innocents, cover the floor in Fethra's home…

"Where did you discover this?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse and rough to his ears.

Mablung responded with, "Upon the city post, where the standard of King Elessar once flew. This was on the ground, buried in a pile of dead soldiers." He held forward another flag, this one ripped and soaked in liquid. The black glistened wetly in the starlight. Rage was the only thing Legolas knew as he took the destroyed banner. The White Tree of Gondor was drowning in a sea of midnight and blood.

The sticky slime stained Legolas' hands with gore as he clenched the ruined cloth tightly. "Why?" It was all could manage, lost in a storm of anguish.

Faramir's face was wrathful. "It is a message. They meant for us to find this standard. This attack is a warning, a warning of war to come," the ranger declared without the slightest hint of doubt in his voice.

"They would not dare attack Gondor!" said Beregond, astonished at the very thought.

"They already have," Mablung answered grimly. "Our King will not stand for such an act of cowardice and violence. Word of this will reach his ears, and then open war will be all but unavoidable."

Legolas doubted Aragorn would be so hasty to attack. He had known the heir of Isildur far longer than any present, and he considered Aragorn to be a man of great strength, courage, and wisdom. The king would not rush foolishly into a conflict whose opponent was more mystery than fact. Of the Easterlings no one knew much, save that they had been the corrupt and vile servants of the Dark Lord Sauron. The nation of Harad was said to be cruel, brutal, extremely clever, and wicked in combat. Their government was shrouded in secrecy, their society hidden from the eyes of the most skilled of informants. Long had they been at odds with Gondor, the conflict ancient and bitter. Legolas knew the story well enough. The treachery of the Easterlings began with Ulfang the Black. During the ill-fated Battle of Unnumbered Tears during the First Age, the duplicitous men betrayed an alliance with Caranthir, one of the sons of Fëanor. Caranthir had been killed when Ulfang had severed their allegiance. At least, that was the tale. A great hatred had festered over the centuries between the forces of Gondor and the Easterlings, and it was clear the latter still allied themselves with that remained of the black forces in Mordor.

Something about this situation did not sit well with the Elf, but again he could not decipher the source of his strife. This seemed too obvious. Faramir clearly thought the same. "This vexes me, for it makes little sense. The Easterlings have not the number to risk war with Gondor. They suffered more egregious losses during the War than we did. They must know of our superior strength. We would obliterate them on the battle field," mused the captain.

"Perhaps the times afford them no other option," surmised the irate Beregond. He took the ruined flag from Legolas, folding it as carefully as he could in a sad respect. "They stand alone now, and their dark way of life is threatened in this new age. Perhaps they have no choice but to act in a last violent attempt to save their kind."

_Perhaps they are simply monsters and nothing more._ The bitter thought felt good to Legolas, appealing to this newfound fury boiling within him.

Faramir shook his head, obviously displeased with the entire matter. His eyes were distant, clouded with thought as he undoubtedly tried to unravel this macabre enigma. Then he broke from his thoughts and looked to his companions. "We leave at first light."

Mablung said, "Sir, are you certain that is wise? We are unprotected here, and we should not tarry in delivering this news to King Elessar."

Looking blearily south, Faramir sighed. The man was weary and frustrated. "I like this no more than you, Mablung, but the men are tired and hampered with worry and grief. A few hours of rest will hopefully be enough to ward away the pain so that we may be clear in our objectives on the morrow. And an attack on the road is no more appealing than an attack here." Warm gray eyes met bright blue. It was clear Faramir was seeking his approval. Legolas was not sure if he agreed with Faramir's reasoning, but he saw the complexity of the problem. There were few options, and none offered more advantages than drawbacks. This plan seemed as good as any. He nodded firmly.

Faramir released a slow sigh. "Let us take some rest then." The ranger offered his comrades a sad smile. "We certainly need it."

From there the Elf bade the men good night. His feet directed him back to the section of the camp the Elves had acquired. His mind was lost in a swirl of exhaustion and emotion. He found Tathar waiting for him. Legolas regarded his trusted comrade with weary eyes. "At dawn we depart. Reinforce the perimeter with as many watches as practical."

A question was poised on the warrior Elf's lips, but he chose not to speak it and instead handed Fethra gently to Legolas before dispatching his orders.

The prince was on the cool ground before he had even thought to sit. He smiled softly, despite his anger and grief. The child still slept soundly. He reached into his discarded pack for his blanket. He leaned back, resting his head on his bag, laying Fethra's slumbering form beside him. Making sure his weapons were within reach, he then pulled the woolen quilt up over them both. He released a long breath, trying to relax his body and clear his mind. And the horrible pattern continued, this night no different from the one before. Would he never escape this terrible insomnia?

A frustrated tear escaped, rolling slowly down his temple. Sleep would not come.

* * *

_Wake, Legolas! Wake!_

The haze in his mind snapped, and he opened his eyes. Yet there was no one there, and the camp was silent. The Elf drew a deep breath; the dreamless void into which he had inadvertently slipped was slow to recede from his consciousness. A slow panic curled in his stomach. Then the voice came again, and the dazed prince realized then it was no voice at all, but the rustle of the leaves, the moaning of limbs in the cold, night wind. The trees were speaking to him.

Fethra had pillowed herself on his arm, and he found the limb heavy and tingling from her weight. He checked her briefly to see that she was well before dislodging her small body from his and climbing to his feet. He glanced around, searching for signs of danger and walked a bit down the hill. His quick eyes scanned the dark pasture. He could clearly see the forests from here, the thick woods creating a wall of trunk and leaf around the grassland. The canopies glowed in the moonlight, but Legolas knew it to be a false harmony. Inside his spirit was alive with discord. The hum of life within him rose in alarm, the trees whispering in rushed, fearful tones to their kindred soul. He carried a tighter bond than most Elves with the earth, a love deep and cherished. With them, he shared the substance of his soul. He had no doubt their song of threat was very real and very eminent.

The wind picked up, reeking again of smoke. His acute senses strained for any evidence to substantiate this powerful foreboding. Silence. Then the whining of reeds in a harsh gale. The soft thunder of many feet hitting the ground. Men speaking, whispering, but not in Common. He felt cold disgust and alarm brush over him. _Black Speech._

Legolas turned and bellowed, _"Ambush!"_

An arrow flew through the air and struck one of the men on watch in the neck. He gave an ear-piercing shriek before falling to the earth. It was still for a moment, time suspending its endless march to allow the dismal truth to sink into the Elf. Legolas stared at the limp body, praying that he would detect some motion, the rise and fall of his back, the twitch of a finger, anything! But the man was dead.

A rain of sharp and deadly arrows descended upon him, and the prince snapped into motion. Elven sight could easily trace the path of the lightning shots, and he ran through them with ease back to his comrades. Through his teeth he gave a sharp, short whistle. Then he skidded to his knees beside Fethra.

Tathar was beside him in a breath. "They come!" he shouted to the line of archers forming to protect the rear of the camp, "Look east, to the tree line!" The Elves rapidly gathered, following their lord's order. Men swathed in shadow and golden armor spilled from the concealment of the forest. They thundered up the hill with a battle cry, weapons raised threateningly. The Elves took aim and fired. A breath later the forefront of the charge fell, most struck dead.

Legolas strapped on his quiver and sword and then grabbed his bow. "Everyone to his horse!" he shouted. "Hurry!" His forces scattered, reaching for their mounts. He pulled forth from his quiver an arrow and rapidly took aim, centuries of experience and natural talent guiding his eyes and body. He launched the shot into the night and was rewarded with a mortal squeal. Like lightning he fired another, his body languid and fierce. He did not wait to see if his arrow met its mark before taking aim once more.

Arod had heard his master's call, galloping from a distant portion of the pasture where he had earlier grazed in solitude. He stopped beside Legolas, waiting patiently for the prince to finish his shot. Another barrage of arrows struck the camp, killing a few of the archers, many of the arrows slamming uselessly into the dirt. Legolas looked up, his wide eyes scanning the enemies sprinting across the grass. They appeared more black spiders than men. He estimated there were more than one hundred. One hundred against thirty. Those were odds they could not beat!

Fethra screamed as Legolas scooped her up into his arms. "Ride to Lord Faramir!" he commanded of one his scouts. The younger Elf looked squeamish and frightened; for a split second Legolas wondered if this was his first experience in battle. "Tell him we will not be able to hold this!" The ashen-faced soldier nodded and then leaped onto his chestnut horse.

The archers were now mounted. They launched another volley of arrows into the approaching force, this time joined by Faramir's rangers. The camp was in a precarious state of controlled chaos as recently awoken men stumbled to their steeds. Horses and soldiers ran about everywhere, some struck with black, wicked arrows. Their attackers were nearly upon them.

Fethra clung to him, hysterically crying, nearly strangling him with the ferocity of her hold about his throat. One arm he closed around her to hold her to him, and the other he wrapped about Arod's neck. He easily swung himself up onto his horse. He tried to peel the little girl off of him, ducking as arrows whizzed overhead. One nearly clipped his ear, the weapon slicing the air loudly with a whoosh as it brushed past his hair. "Little one," he gasped. He would never be able to properly shoot like this! "Fethra, you must release me! Fethra!"

But she only held tighter, squirming, screaming so loud he could barely think over the shrill racket. His heart booming in his chest, Legolas drew another arrow and took aim as best he could.

The Easterlings invaded the camp, breaching the perimeter. The fight began, furious and frenzied. Man and Elf howled into the night, and the sounds of weapons whacking together, of grunts and cries, of the thud of feet and bodies became a deafening roar. Legolas realized they had one clear advantage over their opponents; the horses kicked at the assailants surrounding them, prancing so quickly it was difficult for the Easterlings to strike them. Arod's powerful hind legs caught one man in chest, sending him flying back with a sickening crunch. Legolas shot another through the eye. The Easterlings wore strong, gold plate mail, but the archer had learned well its weaknesses at Pelennor Fields. Another arrow he nocked to his bowstring and launched almost instantaneously into the underarm of the closest opponent.

He saw horses fall, and with them went his comrades. Fear welled up inside him. Cries for retreat rang in the air, rising above the din. Legolas finally succeeded in settling the bawling Fethra into his lap, freeing his arms. Strapping his great bow to his back, he drew his sword. Long blades were not his favorite weapons, and he was less able with them than knives. There was little choice, given his nearly emptied quiver, and with a sword he could use his greater height to his advantage. He swung the glimmering blade down, stabbing and slashing with precision. Men fell back away from him, and he nudged Arod forward, driving to the front of the camp. He saw with grim satisfaction that most of his company followed him.

In the black of the night he could not tell if they were winning this battle. Blood dripped from his sword as he brought it to bear against a man equipped with a crossbow, jabbing it into the soldier's chest before he had a chance to shoot his loaded weapon. The Easterling fell back with a howl before Legolas severed his head with a mighty swing. Fethra shrieked as blood splattered upon her.

He fought for quite some time, his mind separated from his body. Instinct guided him, and he followed without question, moving as though one with his sword. He was well regarded as an amazing warrior, a reputation that had become more widespread given his elevated status after the War of the Ring. Quick eyes and quicker reflexes reacted faster than a man could, and he prevented many of the attacks of the Easterlings who surrounded him. Still, he was growing weary. He wondered how many he had killed and how many more there might yet be.

There came a cry behind him. He ripped around on Arod's back, watching in horror as an enemy slammed a club into Tathar's side. The outnumbered warrior slipped from his mount with the force of the impact and hit the ground hard. "Tathar!" cried Legolas in terror. But he could see no more, as the circle of Easterlings hungrily closed upon the fallen Elf. _"Tathar!"_

He moved without thinking, sheathing his sword and jumping down from Arod's back. Fethra screamed as she broke contact with him, her little hands straining to grasp him again. "Hold tight to Arod, Fethra!" he demanded, taking her arms and wrapping them around the white stallion's neck. "He will protect you, I swear!"

"Leglass!" she wailed, tears streaming from squinted eyes. She grasped the horse's neck.

But Legolas only pushed her away. To Arod he whispered in Elvish, "Run, my friend, and take her to safety! Run!"

Arod blinked once before turning and galloping away. Fethra screamed, "Leglass! _Leglass!_" Legolas swallowed the lump in his throat, knowing it was better this way. Arod could keep her safe; this place was far too dangerous. He watched only until the agile horse had navigated the field of battle and disappeared into the night. Then the heat of the battle slammed back into him, and he whirled around.

He drew his knives in one smooth motion and spun them before charging with a furious cry into the mess of enemies surrounding his fallen friend. They just barely noticed his approach, one turning in time to receive the slash of Legolas' long, white knife across his throat. The Elf pivoted on the ball of his heel, spinning and slamming the other blade into the side of another. The man fell, gagging, as the prince retracted his knife. "Tathar!" he called. There was no answer over the whizzing of arrows and the cries of battle. He kicked an approaching assailant, frantically fighting through the crowd to find his friend. His throat burned in terror and worry.

Blood dripped from his shining knives as he fought, expending all his concentration and energy. He feinted, ducking under a swing meant to remove his head from his shoulders, and swept the man's legs from beneath him. He spun his weapons again and then stabbed them deep into the fallen man's neck. The body seized once or twice and then was still.

Another man charged at him as he rose, catching him unawares. At the last instant, Legolas brought his knives up in a defensive block and deflected the careening sword. He could not, however, sidestep the man's barreling body, and the Easterling struck him hard with his shoulder. The Elf grunted as the sharp spikes on the man's guards ripped through the padded cloth of his tunic and jerkin, tearing the flesh beneath. The pain stunned him, and for a moment he could not breathe.

Then he struck the ground. The impact jarred his body painfully, the full weight of the man pressing him into the grass. Legolas gasped, hot agony coursing up and down his left side as the Easterling's spiked armor dug deeper and twisted into his skin. Frantic and winded, he gathered his senses and looked up into the eyes of his assailant. They were… empty, black, soulless. Pure fear pushed his shaken body into motion. He brought up his knife and jabbed it into the nape of the man's neck, where his armor did not cover him. His enemy only gurgled in pain before falling limply onto Legolas' chest.

For a moment, Legolas simply lay there, struggling to regain his breath and stop the sky from spinning in nauseating circles overhead. The panic and surprise was slow to fade, leaving his body weak and numb. Then Tathar came back to his mind, and, with a grunt of exertion, he pushed the corpse off of him and climbed to his feet. Once upright, he nearly doubled over, feeling hot blood soak into his clothes at his shoulder and breast. Quickly he glanced to the wound. Painful, but not serious. Staggering, he pushed through the grasses to where he had last seen his friend.

The Easterlings were in retreat. The men of Gondor and Elves of Ithilien cried their victory as they repelled the lasting the ambushing force. But Legolas did not join in their elation.

Tathar was dead. His father's most trusted soldier lay in the grass, his throat cut. His empty eyes that had so often twinkled in merriment or encouragement were wide open, staring blankly at the night sky overhead, searching perhaps. To die here, trapped on Middle Earth… What a cruel trick! To stay only to perish. There was no peace in his face. He had faced mortality alone and afraid.

Legolas' knives dropped from limp fingers, and he collapsed to his knees in grief. The tears left his eyes of their own accord, streaming through the blood and dirt. He pulled Tathar's body to him, cradling him in his arms. How he longed to hear his friend's voice! How he longed to know his mentor's support! He had lost comrades before, friends before, but not like this. He could not deny the terrible truth, though his quivering, grieving spirit sought to do nothing else. His despair was so powerful he could not breathe.

Tears dripped from the end of his nose, splattering on Tathar's lax face. Unable to stand the sight of those soulless eyes, Legolas tenderly pulled them closed. "I am so sorry," he whispered. He leaned down, touching his forehead to Tathar's. "Ai, I am so sorry!" The world moved around him, but for a long time he did not see or hear. He did not feel. He was trapped in a cell of misery.

But as much as he would have liked to stay, he could not. He leaned back, suddenly repulsed by his anguish, allowing some hope to return to his battered heart. He whispered an Elvish lament to the passing breeze, wishing for the cool gale to ferry his friend's departed soul to the everlasting peace of the Halls of Mandos.

The thought eased him a bit, and he set Tathar's cold body to the ground. He began to see again. The dark, deep night pressed about him. There was blood on his hands, blood of all those he had killed. Tathar's. His own. He felt the breeze pull at his long hair and wipe at his tears. His shoulder ached dully. The fatigue of battle and over-exertion slammed into him. He began to hear again. The moans of the wounded. The whimpers of dying horses. The sounds of men running. Of shouting.

"Lord Legolas! Lord Legolas!" came a frantic call. Legolas turned at the sound, his heart jumping. It was Mablung, and the man was terrified. "Lord Faramir has fallen!"


	4. A Terrible Tale

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER FOUR: A TERRIBLE TALE**

Legolas flew through the grass, ignoring the pain in his chest and head and the tears burning in his eyes. So frightened and grief-stricken, he could think of nothing aside from the terrible chance that he might lose another friend this night. Another friend. He would not allow that to happen! He could not!

Pushing all the speed he could out of himself, he sprinted past the wearied Mablung, bounding over the corpses and battle debris littering the field. His heart was booming in his chest. Ahead a circle of men had formed. At his approach a few turned, regarding the running Elf with furious, grim expressions. Legolas slowed, his eyes wide and questioning, cold sweat covering him for fear of what he might find. The soldiers and rangers parted, allowing the prince to pass through them.

Beregond looked up, meeting Legolas' worried gaze. "He has been shot," declared the man. In his voice was much, and the archer's spirit shuddered at what he heard. Guilt. Rage. Fear. Beregond's charge had been seriously wounded, and the man clearly blamed himself for it.

In the soldier's lap rested Faramir's head. The young lord's eyes were squeezed shut in pain that must have been excruciating. The healer was at his captain's side, and he looked panicked. His hands were covered in sticky blood, the source of which was obvious. A long, wicked arrow was buried deep into Faramir's chest. The fletching of it was black, with hideous feathers tightly connected to a dark, deceptively strong shaft.

Legolas fell to his knees. He supposed he should have been grateful that his friend lived still, but he was well-versed in battle. He knew that Faramir faced dismal odds of survival. The crestfallen Elf scrambled closer. "How serious is it?" he asked, glancing at the healer.

The healer was hesitant to answer, and that more than anything heightened Legolas' concern. When the man did, the meek words shattered any confidence the prince might have had. "I know not. He bleeds badly." The Elf realized then with chagrin that this was not the expert and trained healer he had previously met. This new man was younger, an apprentice perhaps. The other had likely died during the attack. Legolas cursed all the foul fates.

Red gushed from the wound, spilling like a torrent. Faramir groaned, his entire form quivering, as he cracked open his eyes. Sweat beaded on his brow. A bloodied hand reached for Legolas, and the Elf came closer. He took Faramir's hand, grasping the other tightly. The prince wondered briefly if the man knew what was happening. The ranger's disoriented eyes were full of pain and fear.

Mablung crouched over Legolas' shoulder. "Poison?" he asked, winded by both the run and the tragedy of what had just happened. The healer looked helpless, and Legolas bowed his head. His shoulders shook in quivering wrath. The Easterlings were known for lacing their weapons with vile toxins. Without fail they killed, slowly and painfully, dragging the unfortunate victim's demise out for hours filled with high fever and aching delirium. There was no easy cure, and no chance for survival and recovery unless a skilled healer was available to immediately tend the wound. Legolas grimaced, remembering the heat and chaos of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. So many had perished, for there had not been enough herbs to treat all the wounded. Morgul poisoning left little but despair in its wake.

He prayed with all his spirit that Faramir be spared such a fate.

There was a cry from beyond and the rumble of many men. Cold fear washed over the Elf, and he turned frantic eyes to Beregond. _Please, do not make us do this… By the Valar, please!_ "We must remove the arrow." He was surprised at the firm and courageous tone in his own voice. "We cannot wait!"

The healer shook his head. "My Lord Legolas, he may not–"

The Elf settled upon the man flashing eyes, his anger giving him strength. "There is no other option. We are in the open here, vulnerable and wounded. If they come again, we will be crushed!" Legolas looked down, his eyes narrowed with the gravity of the situation. "We cannot move him like this." He had seen this many times before, in many battles. The wounded often died during transit, when a bleeding injury was left untreated in favor of escape. He was not willing to take that chance with Faramir. Never with Faramir. "We must do it, and do it quickly, before he bleeds to death!"

They sat in silence a moment, each knowing with all their being that the action they chose now would define the course of Faramir's life, that their captain and prince's soul lingered in their hands. Laden with pain and fear, the silence endured until time itself seemed to stop and wonder at what might become of this ill-fated mission.

Then Beregond looked up from his lord's face. "The Elf is right. Hurry! Mablung, ready the men. Send a message to the Elves that we ride momentarily!" The group only stood and watched though, so many eyes glued to the scene before them, paralyzed and lost without their lord. "Move!" bellowed Beregond in frustrated anger, and his exclamation sent the men flying into motion.

The healer grasped Legolas' arm, his eyes wide and desperate. "We have not the instruments to properly do this, my Lord, and I am not so skilled as to contend with such a serious injury!" Legolas appreciated the young man's unwillingness to perform such a daunting task in the field. He looked scared witless.

"You have been trained, have you not?"

The healer sheepishly shook his head. "I – I apologize, but I cannot do this. I cannot!"

Anger sped through Legolas as he watched the other man avert his eyes shamefully. Flustered but driven by need to save Faramir's life, the Elf looked to Beregond. "Hold down his arm. You," he snapped, gesturing to the nervous healer, "find something on which he can bite." The Elf drew a deep breath to calm himself. "I will do it."

Beregond's eyes snapped up and held Legolas' gaze. In the dark orbs was alarm. "You know of how to do this?" he whispered, his face wound tight in an expression of dismay.

Legolas paled further and tried to clear his muddled mind. In truth, he was not overly skilled in the healing arts. Elves were resilient creatures, gifted with both extraordinary physical endurance and defense against disease. Medicinal practices were left to those with natural talent in Mirkwood, and he had found far greater ease in wielding a bow than herbs. Still, he had learned much from his travels with Aragorn. The ranger had, under Lord Elrond's instruction, developed quite a prolific knowledge of healing, and more than once had Legolas witnessed his dear friend's skill in practice. The Elf was by no means as competent as Aragorn or any of the Lord of Rivendell's family, but there was no other choice. He was the only one willing, it seemed.

Still, he could not bring himself to speak over the knot in his throat. Beregond watched Legolas a moment more, but the Elf stared as calmly as he could at Faramir's anguished face, refusing to allow the man to detect his doubt. Then the soldier restrained Faramir, putting all his weight into pressing the Prince of Ithilien's shoulders into the grass.

Legolas drew a deep breath to calm himself. _There is no other way! You can do this! You_ must _do this!_ These thoughts were enough to bolster his resolve for the moment, and he straddled Faramir's waist. It tore at his heart to see his friend in so much pain. He closed his eyes, drawing from his warrior's spirit the calm he would need to do what was required of him. He needed detachment. He needed a clear mind and steady hands. He felt the others shake around him in fright and panic. He would be their strength.

The Elf released the breath and opened his eyes. From his boot he drew his dagger, one his brother had rewarded him many years prior after winning a hunting contest. It was silvery white, the blade long and incredibly sharp, elegantly crafted by the finest Elven smiths. Swallowing and praying his mettle would last him, he began to slice the straps securing Faramir's leather armor to his chest. The dagger made short work of the bindings, and the Elf peeled and cut away the protective covering to free the ranger's shoulder.

He grimaced. There was so much blood. The arrow was close to his heart. Carefully, he worked the tip of the dagger under the once tan cloth of Faramir's tunic. It had been caked to his chest with the red torrent spilling from his wound. But Legolas' hands were surprisingly steady and deft in their task, and he slipped the dagger's point between the fabric and the shaft of the arrow. Gently he cut the tunic enough to widen the hole, and then he ripped it open.

Faramir's chest heaved under him, the young man's eyes blankly searching the sky. The Elf peered at the wound, wiping the blood away with his hands. "We need cloth, quickly!" His harsh tone finally spurred the ashen-faced healer into action

Legolas felt Faramir shift and jerk beneath him as he pressed about the wound, searching for the depth of the injury and the nature of the arrow. He could tell naught. The shaft was smooth, but it was in so deeply it was impossible to tell what the tip was like. "Stay still, my friend," he whispered quietly, praying that Faramir might simply pass out now and spare himself the agony this would no doubt cause. "I will try to make this quick."

"Just do it, Legolas," hissed the ranger quickly. His good hand snapped forth and grabbed Legolas' own. "I do not fear the pain!" The desperation in his voice betrayed the assurance, and Legolas felt wretched at the turmoil he was about to unwillingly inflict.

The healer returned with bandages and a belt. Beregond took the leather article and placed it securely in his captain's mouth. Then the man meet Legolas' gaze. In his eyes was the weight of his duty. Legolas bit the inside of his cheek as he grasped the shaft of the arrow. The thing felt terrible, hot and violent, burning his fingertips. "Hold him steady, now…" Beregond bore down, and Legolas pulled.

A shrill scream rang through the night followed by the snap of wood.

Legolas recoiled and nearly choked. The shaft had snapped, breaking with the strain, and he now held the gruesome, black fletch in his hand. Stunned, he could only stare at it, as though it were something benign and awe-inspiring. Then the full repercussion of what he had just foolishly done struck him.

The Elf's rattled mind could find no curse strong or hateful enough for himself. It could not be! _Please, Elbereth… please not this!_ But there was no escape, no denial. As he looked closer, his worst nightmare was confirmed. Tiny hooks jutted from the shaft. It was barbed. The whole bloody thing was barbed!

Legolas could not quell his rage, the storm of his emotion battering his restraint. He released a cry of frustration, tossing the broken piece away. Beregond shook his head, eyes wide and frightened looking to the riled Elf. "What, my Lord? What has happened?"

But Legolas did not answer. He was falling, drowning in despair and anguish. Guilt, black and abominable, choked him, bile rising up and burning the back of his throat. How could he have been so careless? There would be no easy way to extract the rest of the arrow. His rash actions had insured that. Some part of his broken mind still clung to logic, tethered by the smallest hope that there still might be a chance, a way to undo the damage he had just inflicted. _Think,_ that harsh voice of reason snapped. _Think, you fool! If you do not, he will die! He will die because of you!_

It was enough. He pushed aside his shame, his fear, his rage. He found strength again. He would fight for Faramir. He would not lose him as he had Tathar!

His hands flew of their own accord, some part of his subconscious mind conjuring up a plan of action. The butt of the arrow was now below the level of Faramir's skin. There was no other choice but to dig it out. Legolas let a cold resolution drive him now. He did not hear Faramir's charged rasping, his agonized screams, his grunts and moans. He did not see his friend's eyes blink frantically or the tears stream down a sallow face. Faramir struggled wildly, thrashing furiously to be free from the source of his hurt, but Legolas pressed his weight down on his friend's straining body. The ranger's free hand was clenched upon the Elf's forearm with crushing strength. Sweat beaded on Legolas' brow as he worked, and a surge of blood rushed over the Elf's fingers. The healer scrambled to mop up the flood. Legolas felt only the beat of Faramir's heart beneath his fingers as he cut and worked the arrow free. His knife easily sliced the skin around the stub of the arrow. The hole became gaping despite his efforts to make small, neat cuts, weeping blood from ripped flesh. With the edge of the dagger and slippery fingers, the Elf loosened the arrow from the flesh into which it had bitten as tenderly as he could. Long moments passed, an eternity it seemed in this vacuum of rushed breath and pleading souls.

Then it was over.

Faramir's body twisted in an inhuman, horrid lurch as Legolas pulled the arrow from him. The ranger remained suspended a moment before sinking weakly back to the ground. The cold barrier with which Legolas had surrounded himself shattered, and he nearly gagged, tossing the terrible thing aside.

Silence came over them, the sort that festered in moments riddled with sadness and shock. Harsh gasping and soft sobbing filled the void. No one had the strength to move, as if sudden motion might make the end to this nightmare a falsehood. Legolas' racing heartbeat deafened him.

It was Beregond who finally found the bravery to act. "More cloth, hurry! He bleeds!"

Reality snapped horridly into motion, and a flurry of activity commenced. There were men around them, rushing to lend aid. Mablung shouted over the ruckus, "A path has been cleared to the bridge, my Lords! We must leave now if we are to leave at all!"

Bandages were shoved into Legolas' hands. The prince jerked from his numb stupor and held them against the gushing wound, hoping that pressure might staunch the horrendous blood flow. He opened his mouth to speak to Faramir, but he realized his friend had passed out. Dread sucked the strength from Legolas' limbs. The Elf prince sagged, leaning forward and closing his eyes. All the pains of his body suddenly slammed back into him, and he felt terribly lightheaded. His hurt shoulder ached tremendously. Yet he kept his attention on Faramir, frantically searching his friend's unconscious face for signs of relief, of comfort. When he saw none, he grasped the other's hand and lowered his face to it. "I am so sorry," he whispered. Tathar's lifeless eyes slammed back to his thoughts, and those very same useless, pathetic words he had said over the body of his mentor he spoke again now. A great throbbing shook him. "I am so sorry!"

"Lord Legolas, you are wounded. Let us tend to your arm."

The healer's words insulted him. He stood quickly, his anger strong enough to block from his mind the discomforts he felt, and wiped his face, pretending the wetness he felt was not tears. The action smeared blood on his pale and fair countenance like gruesome war paint. "See to your captain, sir. I need no assistance. His life depends on our escape!" He knew with great dread that Faramir needed the aid of a skilled healer. The aid of the king. Only that could perhaps undo the damage.

The other man blanched a bit, likely realizing the same, but knelt at Faramir's side, finishing their work. Legolas rapidly wiped the dagger on his tunic before slipping it back into his boot. As he turned, a wave of nausea and dizziness nearly toppled him. The haze of his anger faded, leaving him staggering. The world seemed lethargic to him, but he knew everything to be moving speedily, fueled by frenzied panic. He heard someone shouting about the enemy's return, but it seemed so very distant. The need to survive was all that drove his exhausted form now.

His people were looking to him for orders. They were ready, some wounded, others bearing the bodies of those dead or injured with them upon their mounts. Legolas glanced back to Faramir, watching as the healer pressed herbs to the injury before tying it tightly with clean bandages. Beregond bared his teeth with the strain of lifting his captain's leaden body. The Elf began to step closer, intending to aid him, but a few of the rangers had already hopped from their horses and steadied the leader of the White Guard. Legolas swallowed uncomfortably and realized with crushing finality that, for better or worse, he had done all he could for Faramir. A few breaths later the men had hoisted Faramir atop Hasufel, the great gray beast for once simply obeying the whims of the men. Beregond mounted after, pulling Faramir's unconscious form securely against him. "We ride!" he hollered into the night.

There came a warm breath at Legolas' ear, and the Elf turned quickly. It was Arod. As always, the horse's intellect served to astound his master; he had known to arrive at precisely the correct moment. Legolas gasped and smiled weakly, the appearance of his trusted steed leaving him quaking in anguished joy. He leaned into the horse's chest, desperate for comfort, even if it would only be a moment's worth. _Ai, Arod…_ The animal stood strong and silent, allowing Legolas this breath of release. Tears leaked from the Elf's eyes, this time unbidden.

He stood still for what seemed to be a long time. Then Arod fondly nuzzled Legolas' cheek and nudged him with his nose. The cold wetness against his face broke Legolas from his miserable reverie. He looked to Arod's back. For a moment he doubted his bleary, blurred sight. It seemed impossible that there could be any hope left, that there could be light in this choking dark. Perhaps his imagination was shielding his mind with what he desired to see, knowing that his fragile spirit at this moment could take no more death. But it was not so!

He quivered in debilitating waves of relief as, with a shaking hand, he stroked Fethra's matted hair. The child still clung to Arod's white neck. She was unscathed and had apparently cried herself back to sleep. Perhaps she would wake up and think this horrible night a dream. Perhaps she would be so blessed as to not remember it at all.

There came a great clamor of clanking armor and running men. Arod pricked his ears and snorted, nipping at Legolas' hand. Then he lowered himself a bit to aid the prince. Legolas swung his tired body up, silently thanking the horse for realizing his distress. The distant thunder of hooves grew louder. There, from the forest! The Easterlings were charging again!

"Go!" he heard himself shout to his company. _"Go!"_

And so they did. Legolas pulled Fethra to him, tucking the little girl tightly to his chest. He glanced behind him as Arod took off in a powerful gallop. From the shadows he heard furious battle cries, and the dark took the shape of advancing men. Legolas turned back, leaning close to Arod, trusting his horse to know the way.

The cacophony of running horses filled the night like rolling thunder, the bellow of a storm pummeling the land. Wind ripped at Legolas' hair, dragging strong fingers along his clothes and skin. It was almost as if it sought to keep him there, trapped on this island, in this nightmare. Grasping at him, it tried to drag him back. Instinctively he shielded Fethra, holding his precious burden to his chest. It could take him, but it would never take her.

Ahead was the bridge. He could see it now, the mist of the river below sweeping over the stone structure like ghosts reaching up from the water's surface. Through the graveyard that had once been Cair Andros they flew, the horses bounding over the debris and rubble covering the street. The Easterlings were giving chase; the Elf could hear them running and shouting. But they stood no chance of catching their quarry now.

Across the trestle stampeded the company. The stone did not crack or crumble despite the tremendous pounding. The wisps below reached upward to them, as though they were the spirits of those slaughtered straining to catch them, seeking to draw them into the same violent death they had endured out of vengeance and anger. The survivors raced by it all. Neither the wind nor the tendrils of bitter souls could stop them.

Then they were in the woods, dashing along the narrow path through the dense, dark trees. The rumble of their escape shook the earth. And after they had passed, the land was still, quiet. Silent. Only the wind blew, whispering a terrible tale, and when it touched the leaves, the forest began to weep.


	5. All the Difference

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER FIVE: ALL THE DIFFERENCE**

The air was motionless, but a leaf twitched. The most careful of eyes might have detected the minute movement. Upon closer inspection, one could have noticed a dash of blue among the bright greens, yellows, and oranges of the great tree's foliage. Yet it was highly unlikely any could see the Elf beyond the glow of his eyes so stealthily hidden was he. The thick limbs of the tree guarded him, the broad leaves obscuring him from an observer's sight. Only a single leaf betrayed his presence, waving ever so slightly with the push of his breath upon it.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and looked northwest. The sun had risen a few hours past, chasing away the last shadows of the horrible night and bringing with it hope for a new day. Golden and yellow light spilled from the horizon, the illustrious sun slowly shedding her beauty upon the world. From this vantage he could see miles down the Anduin River valley, to the island where Cair Andros had once existed. There was no sign of the enemy, no cloud of dust revealing the march of many feet, no black line of men crawling like ants through the plains and forests, no sense of fear or foreboding. The Elf prince sighed, and the leaves before his face shivered in his relief. They had not been followed.

Fondly he rested his hand on the trunk of the old tree, whispering a soft token of gratitude in Elvish to the ancient spirit for aiding him in his task. Then he gracefully slid from his position. Soundlessly he made his way down the trunk, hopping from limb to limb effortlessly, moving fearlessly though the tree was quite tall. A breath later his feet softly struck the forest floor.

Mablung was waiting for him. The ranger's round face was marred with soot and blood. "What did you see, son of Thranduil?"

Legolas turned to him, straightening his clothes. "Nothing. They do not track us."

The news was joyous indeed! Mablung did not hide a contented smile. "That is good, then. The men are weary." The ranger said nothing more, but Legolas understood well what he had left unspoken. They had ridden hard for hours, trying desperately to put as much distance between the danger and themselves for possible. No words had been shared, no concerns uttered. In the void there was naught but the rumble of running horses and the pounding of hearts. Only recently had they stopped, as their mounts had grown weary. Scouts, the few that were left among the Elves and men, found a stream in the woods whose gentle water clear and cool. There they had built a small camp, giving the animals time to drink and rest their weary legs and men an opportunity to tend the wounded.

Legolas watched as the apprentice healer rushed about, carrying with him bags of herbs and bandages. A few soldiers he had in tow, the men offering their services as aides given the large number of wounded. It had been a grim count. Of more than thirty soldiers, eleven had died, four of which had been Elves of Ithilien. Another ten or so of their company were grievously wounded. Too many had been lost. Far too many.

The ranger and archer stepped through the woods, passing men lying on their cloaks as they were treated. Some were beyond help. They would not survive the rest of the trip to Minas Tirith. Though it pained Legolas greatly, he knew with sad finality that they could now only ease the passing of these unfortunates. Friends clutched the clammy hands of their comrades, whispering comforts and solaces as the dying slipped from this world. The solemn air was oppressive. This horrible crime against them, for all the want of their hearts, could not be undone.

They reached Faramir. Beregond had not left his charge's side once since they had fled Cair Andros, and it was clear, though he had not voiced as much, that he was plagued by guilt. He knelt beside his captain, using a scrap of cloth and a bowl of water to wipe away the sweat and blood from Faramir's pale face. Legolas felt his heart throb at the sight of his injured friend. He dropped to crouch across from Beregond. "How fares he?" he asked. His white lips hardly moved with the question.

The man seemed dismal and forlorn, frightened over these ill happenings and ashamed at his inability to remedy them. He sighed, draping a rag soaked in cool water over Faramir's brow. "The fever has grown no better," stated the man eventually. Dismayed, the Elf felt for himself. Faramir's brow was burning, just as Beregond had said. Then he pulled back the blanket. Gently he moved Faramir's tunic away from his neck and lifted the blood stained bandages to examine the wound. It was red, the torn flesh angry, inflamed, and hot to the touch. The healer had minutes before stitched shut the torn hole, but aside from applying general measures to reduce the chance of infection, they had no way to counteract poison. Legolas knew little of toxins and their indications, but the skin seemed a healthy color at least and it emitted no foul odor. He let that be hope enough, as pondering the matter extensively did nothing but amplify his worry.

The fever was quite serious, though. They could not afford to stay here for very long. Only in the Houses of Healing could Faramir receive the aid he so sorely needed. By Legolas' calculations, they were a full five or six leagues from Minas Tirith yet. Though the distance was not so large, both the horses and men were exhausted, and bearing injured companions would slow them greatly. Legolas did not like the choice before him. A respite was badly needed by all. But what would be the sacrifice? His tired mind swirled. How much he desired to sleep…

Still, he could not rest. Even if he permitted this company a reprieve, he was their commander now. Sleep was not an option for him. "Let us rest here a little while longer." Beregond met his gaze with a piercing concerned glare. The hard, accusatory expression stabbed into Legolas' resolve, and he nearly faltered. "We are too weary to continue, and pushing further without respite will only jeopardize the wounded."

The logic had the desired effect, and the Captain of the White Guard's face softened. Legolas' heart throbbed for his plight, for it clearly mirrored his own. The Elf gave a weak smile, grasping Beregond's hand as it came to rest on Faramir's chest. "Worry not," said the Elf, "for Faramir is a man of great strength and courage. The shadow will not take him. His light is far too valiant and powerful to quietly slip into the darkness."

After a moment, Beregond returned Legolas' grin with one of his own, obviously heartened by the Elf's words. He gave Legolas' hand a brief squeeze of gratitude before continuing in his care of his lord, once again running a damp cloth over Faramir's feverish face. Legolas watched a little longer, hoping fate would not make a liar out of him.

Then he stood and looked to Mablung. The ranger watched him curiously, a mixture of wary acceptance and relief flitting across his dark eyes. Though the man was much experienced in the ways of tracking and fighting, he had obviously never before submitted himself to the orders of an Elf. His misgivings Legolas knew he would not dare voice, but the archer sensed them well enough. "What shall I tell them, sir?" he finally asked, breaking the awkward silence between them.

It seemed a terrible thing to ask more from these soldiers after all that happened, but worry drove Legolas to cast aside his guilty conscience. "An hour," he finally decided, though his voice was devoid of any emotion. Mablung did not look overly pleased with the pronouncement either; it was not enough time to properly recuperate and it was also too much time spent lingering while the injured, while Faramir, suffered. While the Easterlings perhaps plotted their next attack. But the ranger only nodded. As with much that had happened, there were few options, and none of those available offered anything other than danger and despair.

The Elf turned and continued his walk through the camp, heading down a gentle slope to the stream. He heard water trickling. As he picked his way through the trees, he came upon what remained of his company of Elves. Some were injured and most were mourning those that had passed. Tathar's absence was particularly stressful to Legolas' already bleeding heart. Only his anger gave him strength to hold back his tears. The Elves were lost and melancholic, the ghosts of those gone haunting each hushed word and solemn glance. They were in a state of shock, as if the loss of their brethren was simply too incredible and upsetting to accept. _My company. What a fine lord I am!_

At seeing him approach, Fethra tore from the confines of another Elf's care and ran toward him. He smiled, her bright eyes and laughter easing him immediately. The little one bounded into his embrace, throwing arms about him. "Leglass! Leglass!"

He caught her easily despite the ache of his chest wound, crouching and sweeping the vigorous girl into his arms. Thankfully she had slept for much of the ride from Cair Andros, too fatigued by her ordeal to wake even for the roughest jostling. Now she was a bundle of excitement, animated and enthusiastic. Though the change in her once sullen demeanor brightened Legolas, he vaguely wondered how he was going to conjure forth the energy to match her cheery disposition this day.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he shifted her to his uninjured side, nuzzling quite contentedly into his shoulder. An Elf from Rivendell by the name of Valandil saluted him crisply. Legolas did not know him well, but he seemed of a good stock with a generous mind and warm personality. His long dark hair was a bit tangled, and his pale face was smudged with soot. Still, his blue eyes were bright with the new day, offering his lord a token of good faith that all would be well. "Prince Legolas, we await your instruction."

Legolas held tighter to Fethra, though now she was squirming to be free of his arms. "We shall take a brief respite here. How are the wounded?"

Valandil glanced behind them. "Well enough, Lord." Five Elves had been injured in the fight, though much to Legolas' relief, none of the wounded had been mortally harmed. They now lay on the forest floor, some dozing with their eyes blankly watching ahead, others regarding some distant thought with troubled expressions as their comrades tended to them. "We did not suffer so grievous a loss as the men of Gondor did last eve."

Legolas felt a pang of guilt ripple through him, but he braced himself with his duty and weathered it wearily. His people did not blame him for the ambush, at least not outwardly, and though he felt wariness from the men over which he had assumed command, they as well seemed to hold him in no contempt. If only such logic could calm him! _I am no commander. Forever have I been a follower, never a leader._ The painful fact of it, so blatant and undeniable, was this: for all the experience he had acquired during his long life, for all his training as a prince, for all his prowess in battle and talent as a warrior, he was a pathetic commander. Even as a youth, he had never been the favored prince, doted upon by his mother and father, their last, treasured child, but never considered a true heir to the throne of Mirkwood. He had wondered at this paradox, how his father, the King, cherished his son, and yet how the King, his father, abhorred his prince. His older brothers had taken well to the pressures of court, becoming the proper pictures of royalty and well-versed in the arts of ruling, war, and diplomacy. Legolas, however, had never even been given the chance to learn, for his father from his earliest days had measured him far too meek, careful, and flighty a creature to ever one day become an effective king. Endearing, yes. Handsome and talented with both voice and bow, certainly. Compassionate, lovable and in return loving, understanding, surely. But not a worthy king. Never that.

The Elf shied away from his father's court for hundreds of years, preferring solitude to the chaos of generals and laws and taxes and diplomacy. None had sought his company or asked him to return to the princely duties he had shunned. In fact, his older brothers and his father had almost seemed silently glad for his absence. A terrible blow to his ego it had been, and one from which he never quite recovered. One ill-turn bred another, and he had never returned to his King's service in matters outside patrolling and protecting their borders and war. He began to find more solace, more acceptance in the House of Elrond. The Half-Elven Lord of Rivendell asked no questions of his frequent visits, simply allowing him a haven from the pain his own family often caused him. There he had found joy in Elrohir and Elladan, Elrond's twin sons who were both playful enough to ward away worry and seriousness enough to properly address his troubles. And Arwen… long had he cherished the bond he shared with the Evenstar. She was a beauty to all, a comfort to a weary heart. Never did she judge. Never did she ask aught of him, save for his affection in return for her sisterly love. Days became weeks in Rivendell at times, and he adopted a new visage in his father's house: a ghost that flitted about the dark corridors on light feet so as not to attract unwanted attention or duty, a spirit that obeyed when called upon but without fervor, submitting to the laws of his birth but no more. The prince that was no prince at all. And after he had met Aragorn and formed a strong friendship with the young ranger, the separation had become all but complete.

That was why he had so willingly accepted Lord Elrond's request of him to join the Fellowship of the Ring. He felt more kinship with those four Hobbits, two men, one Dwarf, and one wizard than he had ever felt with his own family. He still remembered his father's angry words when the king had dispatched his son to Rivendell bearing the news of Mirkwood's loss of the creature Gollum. It had been his duty to guard their prisoner, and his father had been furious. _"You have failed me, Legolas, and your kingdom as well. I ask so little of you, and even in the modest tasks to which you are appointed you cannot succeed. Go and tell Lord Elrond of your shortcoming! Perhaps you will find better favor with him than you do with me now!"_ Legolas had said nothing, bowing his head and buffeting the rage of his father's storm. After all, it was not proper for a son to raise his eyes or his voice to his father, and much less proper for a prince to question a king. It was a selfish thing, he had realized in hindsight. Though he had joined the Fellowship to aid in a noble quest and protect Aragorn, he had also done so in a voiceless strike at his father for his harsh words. Though his father was cruel with wit and impatient at times, Legolas loved him dearly and sought nothing more than his approval.

He closed his eyes briefly. How he wished for his father's guidance now! Thranduil, son of Oropher, had been a forbidding, stern Elf of great, powerful stature and regal face. Every bit of him had been bred for his station, and he proudly showed it. These days, when the pain of rejection was more a distant ache than a newly throbbing wound, he began to comprehend what his rage had blinded him from seeing. He was his father's youngest by many centuries, the last of the bloodline. The weight of the kingship would never conceivably come to him. Perhaps his father had sought to save him from the responsibility, seeking to preserve the innocence he had found in his last son. Once, long before his mother had been killed, she had told him how his father had named him for the glory of Mirkwood, a small homage to days when the grand forest had been majestic, green, and vibrant. To times when it had been called Greenwood the Great, when Sauron's choking darkness had not turned their lively home into a place of shade, danger, and death. The story had made Legolas proud, and it still did to this day. That his father, ageless and mighty, chose to bestow upon him such an honor made his heart soar in elation. But as Thranduil had sought to protect his kingdom from the choking grip of Mordor, he had also guarded well his youngest from the plight of royalty, from the chain of responsibility and crushing duty. From the weight of ruling a kingdom. And while the freedom afforded him had allowed him to make such wonderful friends and partake unreservedly in the battle for good, he cursed it as well.

It was his father's fault for pushing him away, and his fault for bitterly accepting that push. Had his father been right to doubt his strength? He was not out-spoken, and he knew he lacked the courage to so surely and arrogantly push upon others his whims and desires. He considered himself an equal among men, never using his Elvish blood as an indication of superiority. He loved a Dwarf… _loved a Dwarf!_ What sort of Elf was he? Denying his birthright, denying his father's wishes and values? How many times had Thranduil lectured his sons on the strength of the Eldar, the vitality of the Firstborn and their burden in caring for the lesser races… Legolas hated his father for forcing such prejudiced views upon him, but he knew deep down inside where the anger could not touch logic that his father did not hate for the sake of hate, but for the sake of his people. Arrogance was power, after all, and power made for obedience and thus peace. It was maybe an unnerving proposition, but for all his want Legolas could not deny its sense. He had never wanted to believe it.

Regardless of what he wanted, he was alone now, and he did not have the training necessary to be an effective leader. It frightened him to think that perhaps he did not have the raw talent at all. Training would matter not without the spark, the flare within him for control and command. His father had always thought him more of his mother, with her gentle touch and soft voice. Unlike his brothers, it seemed he had inherited little from the king, except perhaps for a flair with archery. Truth be told, he did not know if he was fit to be a king, or a prince, or even a lord. He had never been given a chance to try. And now, far too much was at stake, and he was doubting very much that he could ascend to a station promised him by his birth. _"You are your father's son. A king's son."_ Tathar's words came back to him, bringing misery and upset. All the long years Tathar had faithfully served King Thranduil… gone, and gone in his son's defense. _"Never forget that."_

_I will not forget it. But I cannot believe in it!_

Fethra tugged on his hair, and Legolas snapped back to reality. A moment of disorientation passed over him, and he wondered how long he had stood still, distant in his thoughts. Valandil was looking at him, a question poised on pale lips, his eyes inquisitive and concerned. Legolas flushed and felt the fool. "I… apologize. My mind slipped from me."

Valandil cocked an eyebrow at the explanation, but he seemed to accept it as he nodded. "Do you require more of me, my Lord?" he asked. He shook his head, and Valandil turned and left.

The little girl promptly started squirming and struggling in his arms again, as if reminding him that there was more to this world than his own wretched doubts and lowered esteem. He realized with some chagrin and annoyance that she was still filthy. He sighed as she stuck her thumb in her mouth again. "You are a mess, little one. Come now, we will clean you a bit. Would you like that?"

She vehemently shook her head, obviously quite pleased with her grubby state. Legolas laughed at that. She vaguely reminded him of Aragorn when he had been younger. The ranger had always been so decidedly… grungy. And rank. During their many trials and hunts together in the wild, Legolas had learned to track Aragorn simply by scent when all other trails were hidden by the ranger's stealthy skill. And the man stubbornly refused to bathe though the Elf bade him to do such at every river and lake, claiming it was useless when he would only become dirty again. For an Elf, cleanliness was a must whenever possible. Always well kept and pristine himself, he found Aragorn laughably repulsive through much of the man's youth.

He looked upon himself, wincing as he realized he was just as dirty, if not more so. His clothes were ripped and stained with grime. Though he had before washed most of the blood from his hands, they still seemed crimson. His normally soft and light hair felt leaden with filth and dried blood. A warm bath seemed a perfect remedy then, the panacea to his aching body and mind. He smiled ruefully. The cold stream would have to do for now.

He stepped lightly to the bank, and Fethra began to babble about how much fun she had riding Arod and how fine a horse he was. Legolas nodded to her comments, more relieved to hear the joy in her voice than what she said. For her at least the rest of the battle had been a grand adventure with a mythical horse. Her ignorant bliss was a pleasing ray of light in this dark hour.

Upon the rocky shore he sat, settling her into his lap. She squirmed a bit more, saying, "I don't need a bath, Leglass. I'm clean!"

"No, you certainly are not, Fethra. I promise this will be quick. You have many cuts; you do not want to get sick from them, do you?" His adult logic worked well enough on her, and she stopped her wriggling. Then he set to work pulling the sandals from her little feet. When he finished with that, his fingers quickly unbuckled the straps of his quiver, and he set his weapons upon the shore. He undid the clasp of his cloak and laid that atop his possessions.

The sun shined off of the surface of the water and a bright red sparkled upon Fethra's chest. The pendant. During the panic of the fight he had forgotten about the mysterious trinket. The same queer feeling came to him. His curiosity piqued, he settled an arm around her, tenderly pulling her back against his chest. "Who gave you such a pretty jewel, little one?" he asked, leaning down over her shoulder.

She did not answer immediately, her eyes averted, and when she did respond, her voice had become somber. "Momma's friend… he gave it to me."

Legolas' brow furrowed in confusion. Could she mean her mother's lover? In Elven culture, it was quite unbecoming and unlawful to bed another outside the bond of marriage. But it was entirely possible that some other circumstance accounted for the act. "Friend? What sort of friend?" She did not seem to understand his question, her gaze shamefully lowered from his. "What did he look like?"

"Like you, Leglass."

A cold shock crawled over the Elf. He shook his head numbly. "Like me?"

Fethra nodded, solemnly. "Only his hair was brown. And he wasn't so messy."

"Another Elf?"

"Do all Elves have pointy ears and long hair?" she whispered.

"Yes, we do."

Then she nodded slowly, unknowing of the implication itself yet fearful of it all the same. "He came," she explained, "and gave it to Momma. He said it was Papa's." There was sadness in her voice, sadness and fear. "Momma didn't think so, but she took it. She was very sad."

Legolas felt his innards twist in pain. "Your father… Was he with your mother when…" He could not finish, feeling pity and emotion well up inside him.

Fethra looked up at him. In her eyes twinkled unshed tears. "He went away," she whimpered, "when the monsters came. He never came home. Momma said he went to a better place."

His heart ached as he understood. When Cair Andros had been overrun during the War of the Ring by Sauron's forces, many men had been killed or taken captive. The Orcs had reportedly taken their prisoners into Mordor, though such a fact was never confirmed. Many men were lost, missing, thought to be dead. Legolas knew of a few missions at the end of the war into the dark lands seeking to free any that had been captured, but he had never heard of their success. Apparently in Fethra's case, that one pendant was all that had been found of a missing loved one. It did glow with blood after all. Her father's blood.

The matter of the Elf perplexed him. He knew of few Elves in that vicinity, and of those most had joined the hosts at Pelennor Fields. Surely a kinsman or two might have aided in the search and recovery of the missing men. It was no large matter. Even so, he was intrigued by the enigma, and he made a mental note to consult Velathir about it when he returned to Ithilien. He would like to meet this Elf and learn all he could about the slaughter of the missing men. Perhaps he could learn for sure if Fethra was indeed orphaned.

The silence grew heavy with grief, and he decided to brush the painful past aside and embrace the future. "Well, you need not worry now, little one. You will be safe. Nothing will ever harm you again, this I swear." He smiled, and then so did she. The pain of old loss was forgotten in a wave of new affection. "Go on, now. Into the water with you!"

Slowly she dipped the ends of her dirtied toes into the stream. Legolas watched her bemusedly, one elegant eyebrow raised, as she clambered back into his lap as through the water had burned her. "It's cold, Leglass… I don't want to go in…"

She made him laugh, her face the picture of indignant innocence. "Ah, Fethra, it will not be so bad. I will keep you warm."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

Fethra regarded him a moment, as if gauging the truth in his promise. But then she smiled broadly and crawled from his lap, scrambling into the stream, muddying her frock even more. The water splattered all around as she played in the brook. "Splash, Leglass! Splash!"

The Elf grinned despite himself, pulling off his boots before standing and following her in. The spray of water reached his face, cooling his skin, and the muddy soil squished between his toes. For some reason it felt marvelous. If the water was chilly, he did not notice; Elves were endowed with a natural fortitude against the extremes of the elements. Even on the iciest pass of Caradhras, Legolas had never been struck with the cold that had so ailed and beaten the others. The stream was nothing but gentle upon his skin.

He crouched before Fethra, stopping her in her frivolity a moment. They were deep enough in the water so that it reached her belly. He cupped the clear liquid in his long hands and let it flow down her arms. The dirt and soot ran from the little limbs freely, dripping into the stream and disappearing into the swirling of the slowly moving currents. Carefully, he washed her, wiping and rinsing away the scars of Cair Andros. They were silent as he worked, his fingers tender and his heart hopeful, as layer by layer the muck and grime came away. As the cuts were cleaned. The purifying waters ran down over soft skin, through red, tangled hair. Delicately he picked apart the snarls, tangles, and knots. When he was done, he ran the pad of his thumb over her smooth cheek. Not yet had time touched her. He prayed it never might.

"There," he said quietly. He smiled again. "I thought there was a beautiful girl under all that, and it appears I am right!"

She giggled joyously at the compliment, and Legolas snatched her into his arms. He hugged her tightly as she playfully struggled and wriggled. Like warm, golden waves of sun, she brightened his spirit and seemingly brought life and love to everything she touched. He had never imagined this feeling blossoming within him. Happiness. Security. The joy in being needed. She intrigued him in ways he had never before imagined. He planted a tender kiss to her wet brow before releasing her.

"Play with me, Leglass!" she cried, prancing around him in the water. "Play! Splash!"

A sudden burst of pain from his shoulder struck him, and the smile slid from his face. In the commotion since fleeing Cair Andros, he had nearly forgotten about his own injuries. "In a moment, little one." He straightened and nearly hissed with the motion, wrapping his right arm instinctively around his injured left side. As though the wound was spiteful of his inattention of it, it now flared with stiff agony and he could not lift his arm beyond the height of his shoulder. It had been this bad earlier, but he had not given it much thought as he had been preoccupied with matters of greater importance. He did not think the injury overly serious, though it certainly hindered his movement. Still, he would not tend to it here, not in front of Fethra. It seemed improper somehow, and he did not wish to frighten her. As painful as it was, it could wait until a private moment. He would heal quickly enough, at any rate, and he had contended with worse discomforts in the past for much longer periods of time.

The little girl's frolicking and splashing drew his attention for just a moment. A new sensation came to him on the breeze, and his eyes grew distant as he smelled horses. As he heard voices that did not belong to their company. A calm came to his heart, a peaceful relief, familiar and welcomed. Exhausted joy rolled over him, warding away the aches of his heart and body. He took Fethra's hand. "Come. Help has arrived."

"Help?" she echoed.

"Aye, Fethra." She looked at him expectantly, but he said no more. On the shore he replaced her sandals upon her now clean feet and put his boots on once more. Then, gingerly but excitedly, he hung his cloak about his neck and strapped his quiver and sword belt onto his person. Fethra waited patiently until he was through and then offered him her hand again.

As they walked up the small hill into the rangers' camp, a call rang through the air. A sprinting man stampeded through the trees, reaching Beregond. Breathlessly he exclaimed, "My Lord! My Lord! The King comes!"

The Captain of the White Guard's face fractured in shock and then settled into an expression of powerful relief. Legolas watched as he lifted his eyes to the blue sky, offering a momentary token of appreciation to the powers that be.

The thunder of many hooves striking the earth filled the air, and Fethra clung to Legolas' leg in fear as they walked to the edge of their camp. From the cover of the woods approached a great host of mounted men. Tall and proud were they and their mounts. Plate and chain mail shone and glimmered in the daylight richly, the fine craft adorning the warriors' bodies protectively. Their banners hung limp in the weak wind, but all present knew the standard well and cherished it. The White Tree of Gondor, shining elegantly like burnt silver against its field of sable, was the symbol to which all present owed his allegiance. Above the limbs of the tree rested a crown, and over that seven stars, marking the lore of the king's heritage. White banners flew as well, flawless and magnificent, and those belonged to the Steward.

Ahead of the company rode Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Upon his breast he wore plate of black, and the silvery tree spread across his chest as if to embrace him. The king appeared regal and powerful, and this was rightly so for he had been the first in millennia to sit upon the throne of the nation of Gondor. His face, lightly bearded, was stern and commanding, but Legolas had seen those gray eyes weep in laughter and that tense expression break in mischief. He was at once king and friend, leader and peer… different, yet always the same. His closest companion, a brother in fact who bore a spirit not so unlike his own. Though Legolas now served Aragorn's kingdom faithfully, never was he a subordinate, for the Elf was royalty himself, and even if he were not, Aragorn respected his skills, his thoughts, and his heart far too much to treat him as anything less than an equal.

Aragorn met Legolas' gaze. The two spoke much in the simple look. Then one of the men came forth to grasp the reins of Roheryn, Aragorn's mighty, albeit scruffy, steed. As the man dismounted, one of the others in the camp bellowed, his voice nearly cracking in euphoria, "All hail the King!"

The battle worn rangers and Elves paid their respects. Legolas made a fist and clasped it over his heart, lowering his eyes in respect, as Aragorn came to stand before him. A memory came to him, one of so long ago. Days before the Battle of Helm's Deep, all had been wrought with despair over Aragorn's supposed death. But the Elf had known better. A stifled grin came to his bowed face as he recalled the exchange. "You are late," he whispered softly in Elvish.

The comment had been meant for Aragorn's ears alone, and the ranger, never one to shy from a joke or friendly taunt, responded in fashion. A sly smile crept to the man's face. "You look terrible."

It would have been laughable, enjoyable even this private joke, were if not for his sad state and the beaten condition of his company. Aragorn sensed his distress and grasped his shoulder. Legolas looked up and meet his friend's eyes. In the stormy gray depths was deep worry and fear. The Elf imagined how wretched he _did_ look, with his clothes stained in copious amounts blood and his face streaked with filth.

There came a loud grumble behind them and rough curse. "Ai, get me down from this fell beast!" Legolas glanced over Aragorn to see Gimli the Dwarf struggling to dismount Roheryn. The horse stood quite tall, and the distance between the ground and the saddle was formidable, even for a Dwarf so formidable as Gimli. Legolas could not help but smile weakly in amusement as the stout warrior was lifted from Roheryn's back by a few of Aragorn's men, complaining gruffly all the while.

Once sturdily placed on the forest floor, the Dwarf growled and raced towards his companions. "You crazy Elf!" he bellowed, his baritone nearly shaking the trees. Though his voice was curt, Legolas knew him too well not to detect the concern laced into his short words. As Gimli's eyes fell upon his dearest friend, he slowed in his movements, his face fast becoming open and wide with worry and care. Then Gimli recovered a bit and huffed. "It should have occurred to me the trouble into which you would undoubtedly find your way," he declared, his great, rusty beard shaking with the exhalation of a long, tired breath.

Aragorn chuckled, but the sound seemed trite and forced. He stared at Legolas with anxious eyes. "Tell me, my friend, where is Faramir?"

Into the Elf's mind crashed the panicked realization of the time they had wasted in greeting. He turned around sharply, suddenly terrified, and Fethra cried as she lost contact with him. "Come, Aragorn! You must aid him, for he fell and is badly wounded!"

"Leglass!" screeched the little girl as men rushed about her. "Leglass!"

Aragorn gripped his arm, his fingers like steel. His eyes were flashing, frantic. "Wounded? What has happened? We received word Cair Andros was…" The king's words died in his throat as Legolas led him into the camp. All around were the wounded, those dead and dying. The color drained from Aragorn's face as Legolas directed him to a small huddle of men.

"My King!" cried Beregond in joy, standing and offering his liege a solemn salute. The large man veritably trembled in relief.

Aragorn's eyes fell upon the form at their feet, and he was immediately on his knees beside his fallen Steward. Faramir's rasping breath was terribly loud, rattling in his chest before weakly pushing through dry, cracked lips. His eyelids were tightly closed. He seemed so very pale and weak, a distant shade of a strong man. Faramir was still, unmoving beneath the layers of cloaks and quilts covering him. Lifeless.

It took but a moment for Aragorn to recover from his shock, and then the king snapped into action. He laid his hand upon Faramir's brow. "How did he fall?"

Beregond answered quickly, watching his king intently. "He was hit, my Lord, and a dreadful arrow it was!"

Aragorn continued his rushed examination, years of experience and skill guiding his hands. He pulled back the blankets and grabbed Faramir's wrist, seeking his pulse. "Did you remove it?"

Legolas stiffened, and for a seeming eternity Aragorn's question went unanswered. Beregond afforded the Elf a pained look, imploring him to speak. The guilt rose up in Legolas, and he spit out the words. This was no time to consider his own pride! "I did, Aragorn, but I made a horrific mistake of it. The shaft snapped whilst I tried to pull it free, and I was forced to tear the wound wider…" He could go no further, for his voice failed him.

If his friend noticed his distress, he gave no indication, his swift fingers pulling open Faramir's tunic and the bandages covering the wound. Aragorn's eyes narrowed as he prodded the seeping injury. In a second he determined what Legolas had spent hours dreading. "He is poisoned." The Elf bowed his head in angry grief and Beregond released a shaking breath. The king continued his analysis in a hushed tone, as though rattling the facts to himself. "This is a devious toxin, for the signs are subtle. Yet this discharge here is disturbing." Aragorn fingered the reddish pus that had before gone unnoticed from where it had formed along the torn, enflamed flesh. The king dropped his hand in anger and dismay, wiping it on his breeches. "How long has he been as such?"

Beregond was quick to answer. "Hours, my Lord."

"Then we have little time. Quickly, we must get him to Minas Tirith!"

A cacophony of running feet and shouting men filled the camp. Vaguely Legolas heard Fethra crying and Gimli yelling to him. However, the world closed about him because all his senses become entrenched upon Faramir. On his limp, dying body. On his closed eyes and weak breath. On the quivering want for life. Aragorn was relaying orders to his men, and the soldiers of Gondor brought forth his horse.

Legolas grabbed Faramir's feet, ignoring the sharp pain stabbing through his side, and lifted the ranger's form. Aragorn and Beregond carried his upper body, and together they moved with all the speed they could manage to the horses. Roheryn stood ready. "Are you steady?" asked Aragorn in a rushed voice, and Legolas merely nodded. Then the king mounted his great horse. "Hand him to me!"

The Elf and the man struggled to lift Faramir to his king's outstretched arms, but their burden was heavier than he seemed and Legolas found his strength fleeting. Thankfully Mablung and another came to add their efforts. A few grunts and moments of strain later, Faramir was settled securely in Aragorn's embrace. Beregond then turned and called for one of the rangers to bring forth Hasufel. There was no question; this was Beregond's duty, and where his charge went he would follow without doubt or fear. The responsibility and guilt shone in the man's eyes.

Legolas felt the same, shame squeezing his heart like a vice. He meant to summon Arod, but his breath failed him. He nearly doubled over as the pain in his side suddenly flared. He could do naught but breathe for an instant, struggling to ride out the waves of paralyzing hurt. Aragorn reached down and grasped his shoulder. The king's eyes were wide with horror. Clearly he had not previously noticed his dear friend's injured state. "Are you well, Legolas?" he asked softly in Elvish, his voice betraying his fears.

The Elf brushed away his concern and nodded, swallowing and trying to moisten a suddenly dry mouth. "I will ride with you."

Aragorn shook his head firmly. "Nay, you are wearied and wounded." The authority in Aragorn's tone left no room to argue, though the Elf liked not the response. "Follow us to Minas Tirith as soon as you are able." The king saw the frustration swirl in Legolas' bright blue eyes and offered him a reassuring nod. Though no more words were shared, the Elf understood what had remained unspoken. _I will care for him now. Do not fear. I will save him. I am King._

Then Aragorn nudged Roheryn into a gallop. Beregond was beside his liege atop Hasufel, the great gray beast complacent with the gravity of his rider's mood. A great stampede filled the woods as the men turned and rode back whence they came. Pulverized dust and leaves sprayed into the air. The banners whipped in the wind as their bearers tore through the maze of trunks. In a blink and a heartbeat, they were gone.

Silence.

Then Legolas released a breath he did not realize he had been holding. The Elf slumped his shoulders, feeling wretched and useless, and he bowed his head. Every bruise and cut he felt anew then, those on his heart and on his body. His eyes slipped shut. _I failed him. I failed him._

There was a sound beside him. Slowly he turned, his senses dulled by exhausted and misery, his body feeling unusually leaden.

Fethra flung herself around Legolas' leg, and the force of her nearly toppled him. She was babbling excitedly about all the horses and men, and idly in the back of his mind Legolas was at least heartened by her ignorance of the darker matters.

The Dwarf was beside him. Gimli huffed, touching his arm gently. "Come on, lad. He will be alright. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. You know this." He did know this, but understanding that fact did little to ease him. Still, he was tired enough to allow Gimli to lead him away, back to the camp. Fethra sought his hand with her own, tugging on him until he wrapped his fingers about hers.

There was talking between the child and the Dwarf. The exchange of names. Fethra seemed a bit frightened of the stout warrior, but he boisterously and loudly proclaimed his friendly intentions. She laughed at his antics, and Legolas gave a weak smile. Gimli questioned Legolas of her, and he numbly supplied the information. In his daze he acted and spoke but without purpose or meaning, and nothing reached his attention. He was drawn into a swirl of doubtful, angry misery. _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer… These hands, though… these are the hands of a failure._

It was wrong and sour and all too familiar a thing from his youth. He banished the dark thought immediately, recognizing it for its falsehood and foolishness, and let into this heart the sun and warmth of love and companionship. For Fethra had grasped tighter to his hand, holding to it with all her little being. He was not a failure to her. And that, for the time being at least, made all the difference.


	6. Homecoming

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER SIX: HOMECOMING**

Dusk was falling over the White City, bringing with it the early autumn chill. Long shadows stretched from the buildings, reaching with fat fingers tiredly across the busy streets. This city was weary this eve, and it was obvious that a sort of melancholy had drained the energy from its once vibrant people. Lethargy oozed from the pores in the cobblestone streets, from the chinks in roofs, from the cracks in windowpanes, and from tiny holes in the great gates. The cold air descending from the mountains had cooled the pulse of life, and though the city's denizens still flooded the roads and markets with work and daily activity, they did so without flare or energy. This was the spell of mourning, and the banners of the king flew weakly and solemnly in the wind atop the Citadel. Peace had been broken for the first time in two years. Everything that had seemed so sure, so certain and wonderful, now was under question. It was a harsh reality and a disquieting prospect.

Through the outer gates rode the weary company. There was no hero's welcome, no trumpets blaring clear, proud notes to proclaim of a triumphant return. It had not been expected. The gate guards watched their entrance with lowered, sympathetic eyes. With the rushed arrival of the king hours before, word had spread quickly of the slaughter of Cair Andros and the ambush of the Steward's company. Tension deep in its intensity had claimed all of Minas Tirith since then, and in the minds of the people swirled doubt, fear, and many unanswered questions. Most were preoccupied with this veiled threat, and they did not notice the beaten company slip back into their midst like a wounded, skulking dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

Legolas sighed, standing at the opened gate until all of his companions entered the safety of Minas Tirith. For hundreds of feet on both sides stretched a tall wall of impenetrable stone. Long had this barricade guarded the White City, the seat of the civilization of men in Middle Earth. Taller than the height of ten men, forever was it a silent, stalwart sentinel. It did not buckle, whether the enemy be wind or demon. This was the Gateway, and it had forever guarded its charge with tireless grace and strength.

The gate guard saluted him, his eyes averted and his stance cautious. "My Prince," he said, glancing to the train of exhausted men, Elves, and horses as they rode past.

Legolas nodded at him. A cold breeze picked by them, ruffling the Elf's hair and clothes. "The King?" he inquired.

"With the Queen, sir, unless I am mistaken."

"And the Steward?"

The man's face scrunched, obviously uncomfortable with the Elf's interrogation. "I know not. King Elessar has ordered the Houses of Healing prepared for your arrival and requested that you immediately direct your men to it."

"I will."

Now the man seemed to acquire an air of courage, for his eyes, hooded by the ornate steel of his helm, hardened with a glint of confidence. "He specifically requested, sir, that I make it clear to you that you are included in said orders."

_How presumptuous…_ The Elf prince gritted his teeth in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. _How like Aragorn!_ It was a hardly disputed fact, he supposed, that he had in the past been less than diligent with the treatment of his own wounds. He was rarely injured, but when he was, he found the hurt to his pride was more painful. Elves were not infallible, but he did not like to make a burden of himself. So more often than not he kept his discomforts to himself, bearing injury in silence. Such was the way, really, of his kind. Aragorn was the first creature he had ever encountered who so stubbornly disliked such behavior. Though he was thousands of years the ranger's senior, the man had taken a simultaneously endearing and annoying role in their friendship, that of an older brother constantly caring for the younger brother's well-being. Many times had Legolas chided his friend, reminding him that he was an experienced warrior that could easily take care of himself. During their trials as a Fellowship, it appeared that Aragorn had finally relented, turning his protective gaze to Frodo. Old habits died hard, it seemed.

The Elf released a slow breath. Perhaps it was not such a silly whim after all. Perhaps he should stuff his pride this once and seek aid for his hurts. Gimli's booming voice came to him in a memory of a few hours ago when the company had begun their ride. _"You fool Elf… You are wounded. Come, ride your silly horse! I can walk!"_ Most of the horses were too weary now to carry more than one rider. Of course the wounded were given mounts so as to ease the journey for them. Tired as the men were, they were forced to walk, and thus their pace slowed considerably. Arod was fatigued as well, though the horse, much like his master, sought to hide it. Legolas had placed Gimli and Fethra on the white stallion's back; for the duration of their traveling, he had walked steadily at their side, leading the horse with a whisper or touch. And all the while, Gimli had reprimanded him for his stubbornness. _"For the sake of all that is good, Elf,_ ride _this beast! You cannot hide your fatigue from me, you witless creature! You drive me mad with your foolish behavior, mad!"_ A small smile crept to Legolas' dirty face.

Still, the Elf was beginning to see the truth in the Dwarf's words. He had wanted to walk, feeling such a gesture might encourage the beaten company. At that juncture he had still been their commander and it seemed rather haughty of him to ask them to make this journey on foot so wearied when he himself had the comfort of a horse. Now he realized the foolishness of such a thought. His feet felt leaden, stiff from misuse. Every muscle in his body was tight and knotted, each protesting movement with a painful spasm. His side was so sore that breathing was beginning to become a trying venture, and his left arm was practically useless, limp and unbending. A dull agony had settled into his shoulder and he became quite certain he had torn the flesh inside when the Easterling had rammed him. Days of restlessness and insomnia were leaving him slightly dizzy, his head pained and his eyes slow to focus at times. Undoubtedly his adamant decision to walk the distance with his comrades had only augmented the torment to his already abused body.

He nodded to the guard tiredly, finding no voice or reason to object. The rear of the company was now passing, composed of the Elven warriors. He stepped up to Valandil, trying to hide both the limp crawling into his gait and the grimace from his face. "Send word forth," Legolas instructed the tall Elf, who was perched atop his great, dark horse, "that all of the company in need of care follow me to the Houses of Healing." The Elf prince paused a moment in contemplation, Valandil waiting expectantly for him to continue with his orders. Then Legolas' eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to the other. "I must ask a favor of you, Valandil."

The other Elf reined in his mount, giving his lord his fullest attention. "Speak it, Legolas. I will do whatever you need of me."

Legolas smiled, heartened by his comrade's words. During their march back to Minas Tirith he had become better acquainted with Valandil and found his earlier misgivings about the Elf's opinion of him premature. Valandil had lived in Rivendell and had served Lord Elrond faithfully as a guardsman for many centuries. He was an Elf of bright eyes, loyal and true of heart. He was quite a few years younger than Legolas but no less calm or reliable. Dark blue eyes radiated youth and exuberance. Though the pain of losing Tathar was still fresh upon Legolas' heart, it much relieved him to have found a good friend in Valandil. "Ride back to Ithilien and have Velathir prepare for war." Valandil's blue eyes widened slightly at his lord's words. Legolas spoke quickly, seeing the other's distress and curiosity. "I do not know if it will come to that, but should it, we must be prepared. Return with as many soldiers as we can spare. If the King asks it of us, we shall be ready to aid him."

Valandil did not speak a moment, as if wondering at the reality of all that was happening. Then he nodded. "Of course, my Lord. I will do as you ask and return with what force I can immediately."

"Speak of this to none save Velathir."

Valandil wheeled around his steed. With a whisper the lanky, dark-haired Elf bid his horse to run, and he thundered back from whence they had moments before came with renewed fervor. Legolas watched him fly across Pelennor Fields. Then his eyes swept over the plains, the dry grasses washed in bloody light by the setting sun. A cold wind tickled him, and he was barely able to stifle a shudder. He prayed these fields would not again be the site of such terrible battle.

There was a snort behind him, followed by a loud giggle. Legolas pivoted and stepped back, forcing a weary smile to his face at seeing his friends. Gimli was holding to Arod's mane as if his life depended on the grasp, Fethra sitting before him and laughing about his bristly beard tickling her face. "Come on, Master Elf. We are home."

_Home. Is that what this place has become?_ The Elf swept his gaze upward, admiring the Tower of Ecthelion as it gleamed in the sunset. Yet here too the sun painted the silvery stones a sick red, washing the White City in crimson. In blood. Legolas forced the image from his mind.

He stepped up alongside Arod, patting his horse gently on the neck, before leading them into the city. As they passed through the great gate, guards saluted from their posts. Legolas and Gimli were revered as heroes and friends of the king, and all paid them the utmost respect. The Elf felt unworthy of it at that moment, returning their admiration with gratitude borne from only propriety.

When the last of the warriors had entered, a call went out to close the Gateway. There came a grumble of large gears grinding against one another, of straining men. The rattling of chain grew loud, and with a booming rumble the massive doors began to swing shut. Fethra turned around, her eyes wide in wonderment, as the gate slowly closed. Obviously she had never seen anything so huge before; she observed with childish awe until finally, with a great, shaking clang, the gate was closed.

She swiveled around atop Arod. "Can they do it again, Leglass?"

Despite his exhaustion, the Elf smiled. "Not right now, little one."

They walked then, weaving through the masses of people on the streets, following the soldier in front of them. Minas Tirith was busy, though suppertime was nearly upon them. Those on the road paid their procession both unabashed stares of dismay and sympathetic glances. Fethra's eyes were wide as she gawked, astounded by the sight of so many people. Carts rattled by them, and merchants shouted their wares and prices over the din. Rows of shops and houses lined the street, most well kept and pristine in appearance. They passed through the next gate and the one after that, slowly making their way to the heart of Minas Tirith where the Houses of Healing and the king's Citadel lay. The great metropolis of men was skillfully designed so that seven gates, including the colossal Gateway, completely encompassed the Tower of Ecthelion and the king's manor. It was a strategic layout; any besieging army would have to pass through these strong fortifications to reach the royal family and thus take Minas Tirith. The walls were semi-circles of sorts, each smaller than the one preceding it. Into the Mindolluin, the grand mountain that housed the base of the White Tower, they rose and melded, leaving an invading force no choice but to surmount them in order to reach the king. To Legolas' knowledge, no enemy had ever reached the Citadel.

Arod slowed his pace, casting worried brown eyes upon his master. Legolas was limping badly; hiding it was becoming too difficult. He rested his hand on the white stallion's neck to assure the horse he was well. He had walked this far. He would not collapse now. To keep his mind from the hurt, he concentrated on Gimli. The Dwarf had been explaining the grand city to Fethra as they walked with no small amount of joy.

"This Elf here would have you believe that this city is a mere collection of rock and stone, dear," announced Gimli. Fethra turned to look at her Dwarven friend, her face scrunched in excitement. "But look about you! The Gateway is but one example of the architectural beauty! And these are no small feats, these things. We Dwarves have a fine eye for the way light strikes the smooth surface of finely crafted stone. Look, there! Do you see how the sun lights the Tower? Many hands for many years labored to polish the pieces to form such a seamless pattern. Each stone is but a stone, simple and insignificant. But together they create such a marvelous sight that glows like silver in the sun…" Gimli's voice grew almost wistful as his eyes gazed lovingly at the climbing structure. "Do you see, my child?"

Fethra watched the Tower of Ecthelion a moment, her eyes rising up its shining edge, tracing the elegant lines as it rose to the pearly clouds aloft. "Tall," she said. Her face broke into a large smile. "And pretty! It glows like Leglass!"

The Elf grinned. He could not suppress a laugh as Gimli flushed, flummoxed at her analogy. Never before had their arguments over the splendor of trees and stones been settled so easily. Then the Dwarf gave a great guffaw and patted Fethra's head gently with his gloved hand. "Impossible as it may seem, I will make a little Dwarf of you yet!"

Legolas chuckled at his dear friend's words. "You will not corrupt this one, stubborn Dwarf. I will not have it!" he baited. He had missed Gimli's presence these few weeks past. The Dwarf had been tending to the Glittering Caves near Edoras and thus absent from Ithilien. He would never admit the fact to his stout, gruff companion, but he had been quite lonely without the other to goad him into futile quarrel.

Gimli huffed, making a show of his false vexation for Fethra's amusement. She giggled musically when his beard ruffled with his huge breath. "Woe to you, Fethra, for finding yourself such an insufferable creature! He speaks with trees and stars, my dear, speaks and listens to them. Elves do not appreciate the beauty of simple, sturdy things like stones and earth. These are the dependable facets of life! Atop a tree one might fall, and the stars flit across the sky for the mere sake of flitting. But here, in this city, there is no rock that would not support you!"

Legolas doubted Fethra understood any of their exchange, but her delight was evident upon her face as Gimli went on about silly Elves and the might of Dwarves, waving his arms ridiculously to emphasize the glamour of his arguments.

They entered the sixth gate, upon which flew the banners of the king. This was a less crowded place, for entrance was a bit more restricted. The Tower of Ecthelion was very large now and broad, reaching far into the sky as if longing for the caress of the clouds. From a distance one might misjudge its enormity. Yet, standing thence and looking upward, it became immediately obvious that this building was a feat of architectural prowess that was rivaled perhaps only by the once prosperous towers of Orthanc and Minas Ithil. At its foot was the king's Citadel, a place few save the nobility of Gondor and their servants entered.

On the southward wall of this clean and quiet street were the Houses of Healing. It was a fair structure, large but rather unremarkable in appearance. Its courtyard, however, was lavished with much beauty in both greenery and sculpture. They walked a bit further, reaching the entrance to the area. A plethora of healers and their apprentices awaited their arrival. Legolas halted, watching as the wearied men helped their wounded compatriots into the sanctuary. He found himself itching in worry over Faramir.

Arod nibbled at his cheek affectionately, reminding the tired Elf to move. Legolas turned, hearing footsteps behind him.

"Legolas." It was Éomer. The young king of Rohan approached. Ringlets of dirty blond hair fell about a strong face. He was handsome, with dark, piercing eyes and a vehement jaw. He held his shoulders high; in the short time he had been ruler of Rohan, he had acquired all the regal stature of a king. Éomer had been the nephew of King Théoden, and after the elder man's unfortunate demise at Pelennor Fields, the young son of Éomund had inherited the throne. Théoden's own heir, Théodred, had been killed some time prior, and with him went the last of the House of Eorl. Legolas had known the horseman but a brief period, but Éomer had proven himself repeatedly that he was utterly reliable, if not a bit cocky and headstrong. He was a valuable ally and a good friend.

The last time the two had met had been weeks earlier, when Gimli had joined Éomer's return to Rohan. The two must have returned to Minas Tirith not long ago. Legolas could not remember having heard of their arrival in Gondor, realizing once more with chagrin how completely detached he had become from such affairs. Exhaustion made a mess of the most simple of recollections.

Éomer's face broke its hard expression when he spied Legolas' sad state. He lowered his eyes in a token of grief. "I am sorry. I have heard the news."

The Elf only lowered his eyes, stroking Arod's neck absently. He had lost the will to voice his grief and guilt over the disaster that had befallen them. There were no words adequate, and it was made worse by the fact that Faramir was Éomer's brother by marriage. If there were apologies to be made, Legolas was the one who needed to make them.

Gimli grumbled a bit. "If you would be so kind, horse lord, as to help the child and me down from this beast. The Elf thinks himself clever for his deception, but he heavily favors his right leg and he has not lifted his left arm from his side since entering this city. I doubt he can be of such service!"

Legolas shot Gimli an annoyed glare, which the Dwarf made a smug point of ignoring. Éomer looked to the Elf prince a moment more, as if to see for himself the truth in Gimli's words, before turning to Arod. The white horse skittered a bit with the unfamiliar touch, but Legolas steadied him and he soon enough recognized Éomer and quit his fidgeting. The young king looked at Fethra and smiled. She gave him a little bit of grin back. It was comforting to Legolas that she was beginning to trust people again, at least enough not to immediately run to the Elf when she met someone new. Already she had accepted Gimli as a friend, and that was encouraging. She might yet recover from the horror inflicted upon her. "Hello," Éomer said softly. "I am Éomer. Who are you?"

Her eyes were a bit frightened, but she answered him. "Fethra."

Éomer's smile grew broader and warmer. "Fethra. That is a beautiful name! Shall I lift you down, Fethra?"

She was uncertain at first, casting a pleading look to Legolas. He reached up to her with his good arm and stroked her head in comfort. "He is a friend," he said. She lingered, torn between her doubt and her trust in Legolas, for only a moment before nodding and tentatively reaching her arms out to Éomer.

The king chuckled as he took her into his embrace. It was clear Éomer understood who she was and what she meant by the sad glint that had flashed through his eyes. When the demented wizard Saruman's Uruk-hai had attacked the villages of Rohan during the War of the Ring, many such children had been left, stricken, filthy, hungry, and alone.

He set the girl to the ground and she immediately ran around Arod to Legolas, latching upon his leg with a grip of steel. She regarded him with wide, yearning eyes, reaching up. Obviously she wanted to be held, but his side was so stiff and his arm so pained that he doubted he could even lean down to grasp her. Instead he stroked her hair, shaking his head a few times. Pouting, she stuck her thumb in her mouth.

Éomer had succeeded in unseating Gimli, and the Dwarf brushed at his armor to clear away the dust from riding. Then the king of Rohan turned to them. "I shall take care of Arod for you, Legolas."

The Elf shook his head. Already his pride was spiteful; it was obvious that Éomer thought he needed care from the healers. He was no invalid! Yet he knew sadly that, despite his ego's infallibility, he was not so well endowed. The young king had detected Legolas' reluctance and spoke more on the matter. "It is no bother. I am dispatched by the King to send for my sister in Emyn Arnen. With the attack, the King worries for her safety should she ride here alone."

Legolas could not help but smile when he considered the Lady Éowyn's reaction to such a thought. She was not easily subdued, and with a wit and tongue as cold as her fair face, she easily expressed her mind on matters like these. "If it is no trouble…"

"Nay. Go inside and seek comfort."

The thought was too alluring to brush aside. He took Arod's face in his gentle hands, and with long fingers caressed the horse's muzzle lovingly. _Thank you for protecting me, my friend. Take your rest as well._ Arod seemed to understand his unspoken thought, pressing his cold nose to Legolas' palm. Then Éomer patted him, and obediently he turned, lowering his head as he followed the horse master to the stables.

Gimli shook his head. "Your ways with that beast confound me, Elf."

Legolas looked to his friend and smiled grimly. "He would obey you as well, Master Dwarf, if you offered him a bit of affection." Gimli grunted in annoyance as they turned and headed inside.

* * *

An hour passed.

In the Houses of Healing, it went quickly, the seconds and minutes flying by as though they never existed. Here there was much to do. The place was chaotic, healers rushing about with herbs and bandages. All about were the wounded men of the battle, lying comfortably as their injuries were dressed. Lacerations were sewed and disinfected, and broken bones were set and secured. Over this controlled pandemonium was a solemn air of understanding and of fear. In the back of each mind where doubts and worries buzzed and whined was the thought that perhaps this would be but the beginning, that perhaps these houses would be inundated with the dying again. Should there be war. Should this peace end.

Legolas sighed and lowered his head. His eyes been intent upon Faramir's sleeping form, and now he could bear to look no longer. At first his stare had been hopeful; perhaps during his vigil he would detect a bit of movement. Perhaps Faramir would awake, if only to dismiss Legolas' fears. But, as time marched lethargically onward, he found each minute became a reminder of Faramir's sickness, of one more moment in which his friend lay still as death. Time was slow to the Elf, doing little to mend his heart, leaving his guilt and pain to fester. Ioreth, a kindly, elderly woman who had for years served the healers of Minas Tirith, had informed him that the steward was merely resting, that the king had cured his body of the poison. The wound would pose no more threat to him, and he would quickly and completely recover. Still, Legolas could not shake his guilt. It had driven him, driven him to dig out that arrow head with his knife, driven him to take control of the men and flee Cair Andros, driven him to walk the distance to Minas Tirith. It had driven him here, seeking no care for himself, to watch over Faramir with this silly hope that the sleeping ranger would simply awake. He had left Fethra with Gimli, for even his love for her could not keep this shame at bay. Alone now he wallowed in it. For the agony he had caused Faramir, he deserved naught but suffering.

The door slowly cracked open. Startled, Legolas turned abruptly in his seat and was rewarded with a stab of pain that he could not hide.

"Legolas?" Aragorn stood at the door. His bearded face was obviously concerned, his eyes confused at his friend's seclusion. Obviously he had not missed the Elf's grimace. "Gimli said you had all but disappeared."

The Elf averted his eyes, ashamed at his turmoil and even more so at his weakness in allowing it to be noticed. It had likely been inevitable; Aragorn had known him far too long to miss the Elf's anguish. Still, he doubted he possessed the emotional fortitude to stand his friend's worry and displeasure.

Aragorn released a slow breath, stepping lightly inside the small room and closing the door behind him. For a long time, neither spoke. The silence was a bit awkward, wrought with concern and guilt. Legolas watched Faramir's face, hoping anew for some sign of movement. At least now an expression of comfort and peace had claimed the Steward, though to the Elf's weary eyes, the ghost of agony still haunted the young countenance. "He will be well," Aragorn finally offered.

"Lady Ioreth said as much."

Emptiness again. Legolas felt Aragorn's soft footfalls. The king stood behind him and laid a strong hand upon his shoulder. "Have you seen a healer yet, my friend?" Legolas did not answer, and Aragorn took his quiet as a negative. The king stepped around the chair and knelt before him, his eyes concerned but scolding. "Then you will see me. And I will not have an argument over the resilience of Elves, or that my skills are needed elsewhere. You suffer needlessly, Legolas, and it pains me greatly when you do such a thing to yourself."

"I do nothing to myself that I do not deserve," hissed the Elf grimly, angered at Aragorn's presumptuous tone and furious with himself for worrying his friend.

Aragorn was not immune to his own frustration, and he grabbed his arm and lifted him from the chair. The Elf winced and groaned with the motion. The king frowned for a moment before grasping his friend's shoulders to steady him. "Stop this, Legolas. You did the right thing. Had you not removed that arrow, he would have bled to death. Do not blame yourself for the nature of things. The attack was beyond your control!" Cold blue eyes met fiery gray ones. "Faramir will not fault you for the pain you caused him. You saved his life. I think he will be more than grateful. What you did required a fair amount of courage, and that is not to be taken lightly! Now cast aside your shame; you do us all an injustice with it. I need your guidance and strength. Please."

The reprimand in Aragorn's words was enough to break through the murk surrounding his spirit. How well Aragorn knew him! How wise was the king! His words were enough to assuage Legolas' guilt, at least for the moment. "You are right," he breathed. He offered Aragorn a relieved, crooked smile. "As you always are."

Aragorn offered a smile of his own. "Nay, my friend. Oft the eyes of an observer have the clearest sight. Now let me see your wounds. Gimli is greatly worried about you, though he will not openly say as much."

The Elf did not care to be examined, poked, or prodded, and they both knew it. But Aragorn's face was stern and his jaw was set. There would be no denying the king's orders. Drawing a slow breath, Legolas set to undoing the clasps of his green jerkin. Tenderly he slid the bloodied, ripped garment down as best as he could. His left arm had become so terribly stiff. His tunic followed slowly, as he was having a hard time of getting his useless arm free from its sleeve. After a few moments, he managed to remove the clothing.

A pained look crossed Aragorn's face, but it was quickly replaced by the calm visage of an experienced healer. The entirety of Legolas' left side and breast was a mottled mess of bloody bruises. The skin was so discolored with blues and purples and reds that the Elf wondered worriedly if he was not imagining what he saw. At his shoulder was the worst of it, where the Easterling's spike guard had dug into his skin. Dried, crusted blood covered the multitude of enflamed puncture wounds. The bruising continued down his arm a bit. The hideous appearance of the injury surprised the Elf and man alike.

"You should have sought aid immediately. Delaying has made this worse." Gently Aragorn pressed about the chest area, obviously searching for signs of damage to the ribs. Legolas made no sound at the pain his careful inspection caused, standing stiff and tensing his muscles to remain silent. "It seems none of the bones have been broken," remarked the King. He rose from his crouch. "Can you lift your arm?"

Legolas sighed gently. "I doubt," he responded, the tension in his voice betraying his discomfort.

Aragorn took the limb by the Elf's wrist and flashed his friend an apologetic glance. "This will hurt a bit," he admitted quietly. He pulled Legolas' arm from his chest and extended it so that it was held straight before him. The Elf groaned, unable to keep quiet with this handling, forcing the muscles of his arm to be as limp and receptive as possible to Aragorn's ministrations. Satisfied with this motion, the king pushed the arm back and bade Legolas to hold it a steady plane with his shoulders. The movement was excruciating.

Finally Aragorn dropped his wrist, and the archer released a quaking breath. "Your shoulder was not dislocated," the king surmised when Legolas again caught his wind. "You were lucky, my friend. I suspect you have torn the muscles, but you will heal quickly." Leaving Legolas, Aragorn stepped quickly to the shelves. His quick eyes analyzed vials, flasks full of fluids, and jars of herbs. Finally he grabbed a sprig of some plant and a small brown pot.

All of Legolas' pride melted away. Wearied, he leaned on the post of Faramir's bed as Aragorn plucked a few of the small, green leaves from the herb. He offered them to the Elf. "Chew these. It will dull the pain."

Feeling a bit facetious, Legolas took the leaves and cocked a fine eyebrow. "Elvish medicine?" he asked.

Aragorn eyes were sly. "A natural remedy." He watched only long enough to ensure himself that the Elf did indeed put the leaves in his mouth before kneeling before him.

The king removed the lid from the old jar as Legolas began to chew. A most terrible smell assailed his nose, and his tongue nearly shriveled. He resisted the urge to gag and spit the unpleasant things from his mouth. "These must be the foulest tasting plants in all of Middle Earth, Aragorn."

Aragorn smiled devilishly, evidently quite pleased with himself. "Only the finest for you, dear Legolas." Dipping his hands into the pot he had procured, the man produced a bluish salve. This he applied to the bruised skin, gently smoothing it over the mottled area. Legolas jerked from both the painful motion and the chill of the stuff. His head was pulsing with all this movement and hurt.

They were silent for a while, the void fill with Faramir's soft breathing. In the quiet, Legolas' mind began to clear as he chewed, the pain fading into a haze. Aragorn finished applying the medicinal salve, and he stood, seeking a basin of water and some cloth. Legolas watched him with keen eyes, and not for the first time did he count himself most fortunate for finding fellowship with the other. In all their long years, their bond had grown deep. He valued it, knowing deep within him that Aragorn would never falter in his loyalty, in his love.

Carrying the water, Aragorn returned. He dipped a cloth into the steaming liquid and wiped at the lacerations on Legolas' shoulder. "The child was the only survivor."

The sudden talk ripped the Elf from pleasant thoughts of the past and future and bringing him slamming back into the troubles of the present. Aragorn did not look at him, perhaps hiding his own rage over the massacre of Cair Andros, perhaps to shield from the Elf his own trepidation and grief. Aragorn's words had not been a question, but Legolas felt the need to answer his friend all the same. "Yes." His tone was soft, laden with sorrow.

Aragorn finished cleaning the wounds, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Beregond explained much of it to me, but I would like your thoughts as well." He reached for more of the balm, dipping his hands into the oily substance before again applying it to the open wounds.

Legolas lowered his gaze, trying desperately to remain stoic. "I know not their intentions, Aragorn, but I believe something far darker and deeper drove them. The Easterlings had no cause to attack such an outpost; flippancy and wanton depravity are not reason enough." The Elf's eyes grew hard and dark. "They meant for us to find their standard. This was a planned act, meticulous and coldly calculated. They suspected a desperate plea for aid from a ravaged city would draw us into their trap, and their thoughts were well founded. Faramir suspected this savage act to be a message, and I agree."

"But to what end?" questioned the king. Legolas' words obviously unsettled him, for he greatly valued the opinions of the Elf. "We know they are of lesser strength, and Cair Andros is of less strategic importance to Gondor now that we have fortified Ithilien. Surely they do not intend to provoke war."

Legolas shook his head. "I cannot give you these answers, Aragorn, though I worry there is more behind this. Much more." He released a slow breath. Aragorn was his truest friend and his king; he could not rightfully hold from him any thought on this danger he might have. "My dreams have been dark of late. For days has sleep eluded me, and until now I attributed its mulishness to my own unease over governing my colony." He looked up and met Aragorn's eyes. "Yet it is clear to me that this is no imagining of my own. My spirit shudders with warning. A vile plot is afoot. Some great evil is coming to your kingdom."

Aragorn's voice dropped to a hushed whisper, his face pale. "You are certain?"

The prince held Aragorn's gaze. For all his want, for all his doubt and fear, he could not lie. "No," he admitted. Still, he would not allow his own doubt concerning these ambiguous forebodings to deny Aragorn whatever foresight they could offer. "The land speaks to me. I taste the wind, and it is salty as though it were a breath of tears and blood. The forests of Ithilien are hampered by the grasp of some black shadow. They scream to me of some peril, some danger shrouded in great secrecy and malicious lies, and for all I try in wake I cannot make sense of it! Each night I think on it, and never does it become clear. Dawn comes and I am left with fatigue and frustration. Oft have I tried to convince myself that this is all some figment of my own imagination, that a fatigued and tormented mind begets only more of the same, but I just cannot." Aggravation and embarrassment crawled over him, and he dropped his gaze. "I speak in riddles. Ai, Aragorn, I fear I am becoming quite daft."

A long moment slipped away, stretched by their worries and fears. Legolas watched Aragorn expectantly, hoping for a hint of acceptance, of relief, of assurance that he was not simply losing his mind. The king finally nodded and smiled a bit, patting Legolas' unwounded shoulder. Then he acquired bandages from a cabinet full of linens and returned to his friend. In silence he began to wrap the supportive cloth about Legolas' bruised chest. Tension pushed its way into the emptiness, and neither knew what to make of what the Elf had revealed.

Aragorn tied tightly the ends of the linens before reaching for another neatly rolled dressing. "Do you suspect the girl was left alive for some wicked purpose?"

Legolas jolted. It would be a self-serving lie for him to think the prospect had not previously occurred to him. Still, it was so brutal and wrong, so horrifically heinous… His eyes flashed in protective fury. "If she was… I see no evidence of such manipulation. She is only a child."

"You are swayed by a duty you perceive you now possess, my friend, and I do not blame you. I have met her as well; she is a beautiful child and quite endearing. As much as I would like to deny it, it does indeed plague my mind. If our enemy is as clever as we suppose, it seems an obvious conclusion."

"She means us no harm, Aragorn. This child has been brutalized. If she plays part in some plot, she does so unwittingly!"

Aragorn stared at him, surprised at the defensive tone in his voice. When the timbre of his words sunk into his tired mind, Legolas lowered his gaze in shame. "I am sorry. The thought of the horror she has witnessed brings such anger to me, and I have… I am her protector now."

The king absorbed his explanation a moment, and then his shocked expression dissolved into a knowing smile. "Aye, and a fine protector you are, Legolas. She is quite taken with you."

Legolas grinned, his eyes softening. The thought greatly pleased him. Aragorn finished with dressing his wounds, and already the Elf's state was improved. He knew not whether his relief was due to the analgesic power of those leaves simply easing his hurts or his friend's solace easing his spirit. Likely it was both. The king said, "This arm will be sore a few days yet. Limit strenuous activity, my friend, as the flesh inside is tender and torn."

The Elf nodded, and Aragorn helped him back into his clothes. "Take some rest. We shall discuss this matter on the morrow, when Éomer returns from Emyn Arnen. Hopefully then more will be apparent to us."

Legolas nodded, his fingers quickly buttoning his tunic shut. Aragorn stepped around him, coming to stand beside the bed where Faramir slept. The king laid his hand compassionately atop Faramir's brow, smoothing the light brown hair comfortingly. He pressed his index and middle fingers to the steward's neck. Satisfied, he whispered a few words to the sleeping man.

The Elf watched, and for the first time he looked upon Faramir without the pounding of his guilt assailing his mind. He reached down and grasped Faramir's hand, wrapping it between both of his own. Then he closed his eyes and whispered an Elvish blessing. _Sleep well tonight, my friend. May vitality find your body in rest, and may peace find your heart in dreams._

Then he turned. Aragorn stood tall as he strolled to the door. "I do not know what may come of this. Still, we should be ready, and we will need the aid of your people on the field, should it come to war."

Legolas gave a sad smile. "I have already sent word back to Ithilien. Whatever forces we can spare will be at your disposal."

Aragorn opened the door and stood in it, looking back at his friend. He smiled in return, though his was marked by laughter and amusement. "You may have your doubts but you are a leader. It was born into you, my prince."

The Elf shot Aragorn a pathetic attempt at a withering glare. "How funny you say such a thing, my king. As I recall, it was I who spoke the very same encouraging words to you but a few years back. You are really one to talk."

Aragorn laughed. "Good night, Legolas."

The Elf made an attempt at a grand bow, but his side hurt too much and he faltered, resulting in a curse falling from his lips and a greater laugh from Aragorn. Legolas smiled at their frivolity. "Good night, my Lord."

* * *

Night came to the city, bringing with it the smell of an inclement storm. The air was taut, filled with an ominous smell of rain. Upon the horizon loomed dark, black thunderheads, rumbling angrily and proclaiming their intent to sunder the city with a hard rain. It was a late summer tempest, the sort that came unexpectedly when the leaves were just beginning to turn. From the size of the dark clouds, it was obvious this one would be quite loud and powerful.

The streets were beginning to empty as people sought cover from the imminent squall. Legolas held tight to Fethra, easily supporting her sleeping form against his uninjured shoulder with his right arm. She had succumbed to an exhausted slumber while Legolas had met with Aragorn. According to Gimli, the child had been examined thoroughly, bathed, clothed in a new red dress, and then fed with a bit of Ioreth's meaty stew. Not unexpectedly, she had dozed off not long after, her belly full and her heart content.

Gimli walked beside him. "Dark times are these," he grumbled disdainfully, "when men will slaughter men and leave a child to tell of their brutality."

They made their way along the road slowly, for though Aragorn's leaves had helped reduce Legolas' pain, he found the dull ache still hindering his agility and strength. Gimli did not press him on the matter, and for that Legolas was glad. He could tell, though, from the Dwarf's numerous glances (which certainly the other thought were inconspicuous) that Gimli was both worried about him and immensely glad he had finally sought aid for his wounds.

Ahead was the Citadel, where they, along with the king, the queen, and the royal advisors, made their home. Gimli and Legolas were such frequent and highly esteemed visitors to Minas Tirith that each had a suite of rooms of his own in the great manor. The king's banners flew high upon the towers, whipping about in the steady wind. Many entered the Citadel: cooks, seamstresses, soldiers coming on and off duty, servants, messengers… it was a busy place, and tonight was no exception. Slowly they made their way along the last gate, heading towards the entrance. Along the road some ways further were the barracks of the Guard of the Tower of Gondor. These were the men charged with but one mission: to protect the king's manor. They were not permitted to ever leave the Citadel unguarded, and their duty was unending. They did not lapse in their defense. Though Gondor's military was large and powerful, they alone bore the White Tree upon their breasts. Revered among many, the men of Guard were the most elite soldiers, the most talented of warriors, trained to, above all, lay down their lives for their king.

The Guard was changing. The soldiers lining the gate were stiffly marching from their posts. If they were weary of the day's duties, it did not show in their proud, powerful gaits. A new set of men appeared from the crowd, stepping around the Elf and Dwarf with calm faces. Yet their eyes were alive, proud of their stature and importance.

There was a shift in the crowd, and suddenly Legolas was knocked to the side. Were this a normal day, the Elf would had retained his balance. As it was, his weakened side and exhaustion inhibited his normal poise, and he nearly tripped. Grasping tightly to Fethra, he stumbled the side. Gimli was quick to steady him, and the Dwarf sent a vicious glare at the clumsy oaf who had rammed into them.

Legolas regained himself quickly. It was no clumsy oaf.

Black, soulless eyes delved deeply into his own.

He was back there, suddenly, crushed under the weight of the Easterling that had attacked him, staring up in shock at those depthless, lifeless orbs. He was lost in their swirling abyss, lost as he hopelessly searched for a spirit, for emotion.

The man grasped his arm in apology and offered a sad smile. "Begging your pardon, my Lord. I am sorry!" he said, his face a picture of genuine sincerity. Legolas swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded.

A breath later he rushed away, pushing towards the gate. It was then that the Elf noticed his attire. Black plate mail adorned his figure, tightly encasing his body. Across his chest had been the White Tree, brazen in its proclamation of who he was and to what he belonged. The Guard disappeared in the humming throng of activity.

For a long moment the prince stood, trying to shake a strange feeling. He stared into the mess of people, desperately seeking the man again. But, as sharp and keen as his eyes were, he could not discern his black uniform from the plethora of color and motion.

"What ails you, Legolas?" Gimli asked, directing the Elf's attention to his companion once more.

The Elf spent a moment further in his inspection, but the suspicious feeling had faded. Once again his exhausted and overactive imagination had gotten the better of his common sense. "Nothing, Gimli," softly responded he, abandoning his search.

Gimli appeared doubtful a moment, but then he accepted his comrade's answer, for he broached the matter no longer. Legolas resettled Fethra a bit. The jostling had thankfully not wakened her. "Well, then, let us be off," Gimli said. "My stomach requires my attention. I hope the cooks are still at work. I do believe a frosty mug of ale would be a fitting end to such a day…"

* * *

They took a short detour to settle Fethra's sleeping form under the blankets in her room. The queen, always mindful of others, had set aside a small place for the little girl inside Legolas' suite that was adjacent to his own room. After assuring himself that she was comfortable, Legolas had allowed his Dwarven companion to lead him to the kitchens. Much to Gimli's exultation, the cooks had not yet retired for the evening. The head cook was a large, talented woman with many years experience. Her trade was delicious; even Legolas had to admit as such, though he, like most Elves, held no such great love for eating as mortals did. She added such spice and flare to the simplest of dishes so that each bite was a savory treat. Throughout the Citadel she was much loved and appreciated, for, thanks to her hands and heart, few places in Middle Earth offered such unique and delectable meals.

Even so, Legolas could not find his appetite. He picked about his dinner, eating little though the stew smelled wonderful and the wine was sweet to his tongue. He realized with annoyance that he should have asked Aragorn for a supply of those repulsive leaves, for the pain had come back quite assertively and he had no way to remedy it. His stomach simply refused to settle, given the tight constriction of seemingly every muscle in his chest.

So he sat, listening to Gimli's conversation of the Glittering Caves and Rohan, to all the Dwarf had done since they had last met. He tried to pay his dear friend his attention, but his mind wandered to thoughts best left in the shadow. Smiling pleasantly when the situation required, laughing when Gimli joked, giving short, unemotional answers about Ithilien and Elves… He was in no mood for conversation. Tathar's death was coming back to him and weighing heavily upon his heart.

Perceptive as he was, Gimli had noticed his withdrawal from their conversation and inquired as to his preoccupation. Legolas told him about losing Tathar, and though the Dwarf had offered his ear to Legolas' sorrows, the Elf could not oblige him. He thanked Gimli for his concern and swore that he would be well. The Dwarf had again steeled him with a suspicious look, obviously doubting the validity of his claims. But Gimli conceded and their conversation had awkwardly died. It was just as well, as Gimli had finished his supper and the cooks were banishing them from their kitchen.

They parted with a silent understanding. Gimli offered again his support, and Legolas politely refused it, thankful all the same. So close had they become that feelings were shared without words. Their devotion was deep, their connection a brotherhood borne from common peril and purpose. Without any words had they parted ways, each going to his own solitude.

Lightning arced and ran through the night, streaking the clouds with violent intensity. But it was quiet. The thunder had not yet come.

He limped to his own room and stripped from his body his clothes as gingerly as he could manage. Then he settled into a bath. The hot water felt gloriously good to his tired muscles and aching wounds. He scrubbed from his skin and hair the mess of blood, dirt, and soot. How wonderful to be clean again! Nothing had ever felt so good.

He dried himself after, taking great care not to strain his tender side. He dressed in a loose tunic and breeches, taken from the store of clothes he kept here for impromptu visits. Exhausted and saddened, he then slipped into his cool bed, naturally expecting sleep to quickly come for him.

But it would not.

The Elf turned over in anger and rammed a fist into a pillow. For such a brash action he was awarded a great spasm of pain from his side that left him gasping. Something wet and warm trickled down his face as he struggled to regain his breath. He touched it curiously, and it was surprised to find tears leaking from his eyes. When was the last time he had slept? And slept normally, no less? It was the custom of his kind to slumber with eyes open. Many mortals found it disconcerting to watch an Elf dream, for the eye, though half-lidded and glazed, still seemed constantly alerted to all that occurred. Legolas realized a chilling fact that he had not until now considered. These last days, when this terrible bout of insomnia had struck him, when he _had_ slept and awoken, he distinctly remembered opening his eyes.

_Ai, Elbereth… What is happening to me?_

Suddenly a clap of thunder shook the room, rattling glass and stone. Booming and banging, it continued for a long moment, deafening in its ferocious intensity. In its wake was a wail, the sort a frightened child made.

Legolas sat up quickly, startled by the crying, and cursed when his tender injuries again slapped him with a painful reminder of their existence. He managed to ignore it, sliding from his bed and running quickly to the door of his room. A breath later he barged into Fethra's, frightened that something terrible had happened.

Another bout lightning flashed, and his eyes quickly detected the little girl. She was little more than a lump under her quilts. The thunder followed, bellowing its rage, and she shivered and cried. "Fethra," he whispered, laying a hand on the huddled mass.

She tore the blankets off, sobbing hysterically, and grabbed at him. "Leglass! Leglass!"

He took the weeping child into his arms, holding her tightly while she sobbed into his tunic. The rage of the storm flashed again, streaking blinding light through the room, and she shivered, burying her face into his chest. "Shh, little one," he comforted, stroking her back in reassurance. "All is well."

"I had a bad dream, Leglass," she whimpered. The words came quickly, slurred with terror. "The bad men came and there was a noise. Then Momma told me to hide by the wall. She was so scared."

"It was only a dream," the Elf insisted. She peeled back from his chest to gaze up at him. "It cannot hurt you."

Tears slipped from her wide eyes. She hiccupped. "Can I sleep with you tonight, Leglass?" she asked in a wistful, frightened voice. She leaned back to look into his eyes. Hers were mired in terror and panic. "The bad men won't come if you're there."

The question took him aback a bit, but he quickly recovered. His heart ached and throbbed for her plight. How could he deny her some semblance of peace? "Of course, little one. Nothing bad will ever happen to you again. I swear."

Then he swept her into his embrace, her small form shaking and weeping. He stood, walking on silent, bare feet back to his own room. Once inside, he closed the close. The storm vented its wrath upon them, lightning constantly flashing, thunder clapping. He reached his bed and set her in it before following himself.

She clung to his side, pillowed against his uninjured shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. He pulled up the blankets to cover them both. Glancing down at her, he was relieved to see her eyes slip shut once more, her little, pink lips extended in a sort of pouting joy.

It was quiet a moment. Then she shifted and clung tighter to him. "Love you, Leglass."

The words were so soft, barely more than a murmur, that for a moment he doubted his ears. He looked down at her in surprise, but she had sunk back into an exhausted sleep. It took a moment for the implication to truly strike him, and when it did, something inside him swelled and sang with joy. He smiled to the shadows, knowing without a doubt the jubilation, the peaceful caress upon his spirit that was her devotion. The sun warmed his heart, the sun of what could only be fatherly adoration. Some part of his mind shied away from these presumptuous ideas. He knew nothing about children, let alone how to raise one properly. This girl was a mortal. He was Elf-kind. He was not her father. He never could be.

But the spell those simple words had put upon his soul could not be undone, and, for the moment at least, he had no wish to undo it. He closed his eyes, welcoming the bond between them, welcoming her faith in him and her need of him, cherishing it. Peace came to him then, a peace borne of her love and his acceptance of it. It was enough to ward away the worries, the distractions, the sorrows and fears and forebodings. Sleep called to him, and for the first time in a great while, he was free to embrace it.


	7. A Red Sun Rises

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER SEVEN: A RED SUN RISES**

Something was wrong.

The haze of sleep faded from Legolas' mind, and he awoke. He lay still for a long moment, wondering where he was and how he had come to be in such a place. At first memory refused to emerge from the blur of disoriented thought and unconsciousness. But his senses composed themselves, and he realized he was in his room in Minas Tirith. Familiar smells and sights struck him, his keen eyes finding the same patterns in the stone ceiling above him, his back recognizing the comfort of his bed. There was warmth beside him, and he turned his head to find Fethra nestled in the crook of his arm. The child was sound asleep, peacefully dreaming with a bit of a grin upon her full lips.

There was a great flash of light and a crack of thunder. Legolas looked to the window, watching the rivulets of rain spill down the pane as the deluge outside soaked the city. The Elf stared blankly at the sight, lulled by the rumbling thunder and the heavy patter of the rain. How long had he slept? The storm still raged, and he became certain that little time had passed. He sighed, sinking back into the soft mattress and pillows, wishing the bed and the shadows would just take him and never let him go. Why could he never find peace? What so plagued his mind? It was unnatural, grotesque and fearfully wrong… The Elf narrowed his eyes in frustrated fury. This was a great riddle, it seemed, a puzzle shrouded with dark intentions and malicious manipulations. The key to its mystery felt just beyond his reach, no matter how he twisted, turned, or considered it. Something foul was afoot. He was certain.

_Paranoia claims you,_ reasoned his mind. _Rest these worries; they do naught but disturb you!_ Legolas lay silently for a long time, hardly breathing, struggling to pull from his core an iota of tranquility. Stubbornly it refused to come. This foreboding was persistant, looming over him, and he could not for all the want of his vexed and tired self ignore it. He could not shake this feeling that a terrible tragedy was about to happen. _Fool,_ his thoughts seethed. _And now will you wander these halls, searching for ghosts, for demons to attack you from cover of shadow? I doubt there ever was a more pathetic plan._ Still, that was exactly what he intended to do. His heart would allow him no rest until he silenced this silly, nagging fear that all was not right. _I shall laugh at this in the morning. Gimli will be greatly amused at this stupidity!_

Carefully, so as not to wake Fethra, he rose from the bed, wincing slightly at the ache in his chest. He pulled the blankets up, covering the slumbering girl, and then ran his thumb down the length of her cheek. He worried about leaving her alone, even if it were to be for only a few minutes. But this itching anxiety would not be denied, and he turned, absentmindedly placing his feet into his boots and heading silently to the door. He stopped for a moment and turned. With a frustrated breath he stepped to where he had rested his quiver and bow against the bureau. He lifted his small dagger and strapped it around his shin underneath his boot.

Stealthily he slipped outside. The long, carpeted corridor was dark aside from a few candles shedding dim yellow light in a row of sconces. It was empty, starkly so. Through the window at one end lightning raged and pulsed, casting an eerie white glow. The Elf stood still, straining acute senses, scarcely breathing. All was quiet. There was nothing amiss. And why should there be? The city was safe, and the Citadel itself was relentlessly defended by the Guard. All the denizens of Minas Tirith were slumbering peacefully, safe in a world of calm and pleasant dreams. He should have been no exception, and the urge rose up within him again to cast aside this infernal disquiet beleaguering him and sensibly return to bed.

Even more potent still was the crawling sense of imminent peril, of skulking threat. The Elf felt it as vividly and as closely as he felt the cool, damp air cling to him, as he felt the firmness of the floor under his slowly walking feet and the touch of the smooth stone wall beneath his trailing fingertips. Abandoning all doubt, he concentrated on the unease curling and coiling in the pit of his stomach. Elves were gifted with senses beyond that of normal mortal experience, and years of hunting spiders in the forests of his father's kingdom had finely attuned him to hints of danger or malevolence. As he treaded softly in the darkened hall, the feeling grew steadily larger and more pressing, leaving him increasingly certain that the peace and security this eve was little more than an illusion. This warning blaring inside him was no trick of his tired mind. Ill deeds were at work. He was certain.

On light feet, the Elf prince flew through the empty corridors. He had long learned to trust his instincts, and they screamed at him one terrible chant: _Aragorn is in danger._

Up the stairs he vaulted, taking the wide, stone steps two at a time. At the top of the steps he stopped a moment, narrowed eyes flashing as he scanned the area. This was the private corridor that led to the bedchambers of the royal family. Few were permitted to enter this sanctum as both a matter of security and privacy. At all times, it was heavily guarded. Yet the hall way was black and painfully empty. The candles had been blown out. Lightning flashed, shedding pale illumination down the vacant passage for only the fraction of a second. Yet that was enough, and Legolas drew a sharp breath, his eyes widening in terror and panic.

A figure clad in black slipped into the king's chambers.

The Elf sprang into action, sprinting along the corridor. He made no sound, his steps light and noiseless. Black shapes littered the floor near the double doors leading into Aragorn's quarters. Legolas offered a horrified glance as his agile body thoughtlessly avoided the corpses of the men who had been assigned to guard this place. Blood covered the floor; their throats had been cut, their eyes wide open in agonized shock, their lips parted in soundless screams. This was no simple attack, that the Guard was a unit of expertly trained men. No clumsy assailant could so easily and furtively murder them. But he had no time to consider the loathsome idea further.

He silently drew to a stop outside the door and held still, concentrating with all his might on listening. At first there was nothing, only a silence so deep and unbreakable that it chilled his heart. He pondered charging inside a moment but quickly decided against such a rash action. If indeed this enemy was highly skilled in the art of assassination, he would not be a foe to be taken lightly. So he stilled his straining heart and waited, praying this demon had not anticipated the keen senses of an Elven warrior observing him. There was the soft sound of a footfall on the other side of the door. One. Then two. _Wait._ Three and four. Five. The Elf narrowed his eyes, leaning down to draw his dagger from his boot and then tensing every muscle in his body. He grasped the doorknob. Six. Seven. Silence.

_Now!_

He twisted the knob sharply and charged inside.

The king's chambers were pitch black, but the darkness did not hinder the Elf's sharp eyes. There, mid-stride to the bed where Aragorn and Arwen lay slumbering unaware and unarmed, stood a figure shrouded in night and obscurity. Lightning violently seared the air, flashing through the large windows and spreading blinding illumination through the room. In the figure's hand was a long, gleaming knife.

This observation lasted but a breath, for the man turned, hearing the Elf's entrance. Surprisingly fast, he brought his weapon to bear, slashing at Legolas. The nimble Elf jumped back, avoiding the deadly strike and returning with a blow of his own. "Aragorn!" he bellowed, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The attacker feinted and lunged for the bed. Legolas was quick to grab the assailant's arm and yank him back. In Sindarin, he shouted, "Aragorn, you are in danger!"

He could not stop to see whether or not his call had roused his sleeping friend, for the assassin turned on him, desperate to free himself and complete his kill. Soundlessly the figure kicked at him, but Legolas was too fast, ducking to avoid the attack. The wicked, glinting knife sliced the air, aimed for the archer's chest. Legolas' bright, blue eyes were calm as he smacked his dagger against the careening knife, tracing its path easily. The enemy faltered a moment, apparently surprised by Legolas' abrupt action, and the Elf took that brief second of weakness to his advantage. His fingers wrapped around the other's wrist, his grip impossibly strong, and he twisted the arm. The piercing shriek of metal scraping on metal filled the room as the two blades came free, and the Elf yanked the assailant around, twisting his arm behind his back. The shrouded figure was strong and fleet, through, twisting about to attempt to ram his fist into Legolas' jaw. The Elf stepped back, his side stiffly and painfully protesting, frustrated as he was forced to release his restraining grasp to avoid the punch.

Dauntlessly, the attacker pursued his quarry. He scrambled to the bed. Arwen released a startled cry; the attacker brandished his knife against her, stabbing towards the queen with a brutal speed. Furious, Legolas grabbed him and pulled him from the bed, reaching for the blade. They struggled a moment, the Elf exerting all his strength to confine the murderer. This monster would not be stopped!

Finally Legolas' superior power and endurance triumphed. Thunder clapped, and lightning blasted the blackness. The attacker fell to the floor with a grunt, the Elf tackling him. He curled his fingers tightly about the assailant's throat, squeezing just enough to hinder his breathing. Legolas grabbed his flailing wrist once more and slammed it down into the floor viciously twice. The second blow was painful enough to cause the other to drop the knife. It clattered harmlessly away. The attacker wriggled and bucked beneath him. The Elf lodged the deadly edge of his dagger under the other's chin. The assassin slowed his struggles quickly enough.

The tip of a long, silver sword came to rest at the assailant's brow. Legolas looked up, pressing his weight down upon the still form beneath him to keep him immobile.

Aragorn's face was a picture of startled wrath. Andúril wavered not as the king held it over the assassin. Rage flashed in his eyes as light washed the room. "Who has sent you?" hissed the king. In the bright bursts of light Legolas saw the figure was masked in black, and only his eyes were visible. The Elf's eyes widened in surprise and dismay. Black eyes. Black, soulless eyes. "Speak, fiend, and I might ease your suffering!" Aragorn snapped.

It was silent. Thunder grumbled and rumbled, expressing its angry opinion of the situation. The attacker then closed his eyes as if to express his submission. Legolas slowly moved his dagger from the soft flesh of the other's throat. The Elf glanced up at his friend for a moment, loosening his grip just a bit.

The assailant's eyes snapped open, and he wildly shoved the alarmed Elf from him. Legolas' head smacked into the post of the bed, momentarily dazing him. A breath passed before the Elf regained himself. And when he did, he was not fast enough to stop the attacker from taking a life.

The storm raged. Thunder cracked and the room shook.

The terrible squish of steel slicing deeply into tender, vital flesh resounded. A thick splatter of blood dripped. Following was a whisper of pained words, a fleeting plea for mercy. Then the red knife fell to the floor. Soon after came the attacker's body, his throat cut by his own hand.

A long moment passed in which no one moved. The three friends had not the strength to speak, each staring in shock at the unmoving form and the growing puddle of glistening crimson spreading across the blue rug. A thousand answerless questions dashed through their minds. How had such a thing happened? Who had so cowardly attempted to murder the king in his sleep? _Why?_

Legolas stood slowly, his injuries suddenly spreading dull hurt over his body. Arwen crept behind Aragorn, touching her husband's arm. Her beautiful face was whiter than normal, her deep blue eyes glistening with fear and confusion. The great mass of her silky, brown tresses was mussed with sleep. Legolas imagined that any other might have been left stricken by such an attack. But not Arwen. Never Arwen. She was too strong, too agelessly wise and calm. Her stature was tall, her spirit pure and shining, her eyes telling of her compassion and timeless vigor. She was the daughter of a powerful Elf lord, of a mighty creature in thought and war, and every movement, every glance, showed that pride and dignity.

Aragorn returned his blade to his sheath. His eyes flicked to his lover, seeking her assurance that she was well. However, Arwen's inquisitive gaze was centered on their dead foe. Aragorn released a long breath, reaching to an ornately carved oaken nightstand for a candle. The king fumbled about, seeking to light it. Arwen's eyes sought Legolas'. "Are you well?" she whispered to him.

The Elf prince sighed softly. He slid his dagger back into his boot. "Aye."

Soft, golden illumination struck the area, shedding a constant, warm light to ward away the lingering terror of the shadows. The candle Aragorn gave to Arwen before kneeling beside his friend. "How could he reach this place?" the king muttered, anger taut in his tone.

With the aid of king, Legolas rolled the dead assailant to his back. "He slew the Guards stationed in the hall. All of them he killed, and in doing so made no sound to betray his existence." explained the Elf sadly and quietly. Aragorn's breath hitched in his throat most likely in fury and shock. The Elf glanced to his friend, watching the questions swirl in the king's eyes. "Sleep would not come to me this eve. A premonition of evil disturbed me, and I thought to seek out its truth."

Aragorn grasped Legolas' shoulder, a weary smile gracing his bearded face. He said nothing, but the Elf understood nonetheless. The words were unneeded, so deep was their brotherly bond. The king radiated relief and gratitude. Had Legolas not believed his fears, blood would have been spilt upon their bed. The King and Queen of Gondor would have been assassinated in their sleep. It seemed like some sort of perverted nightmare, a terrible future that had, by some stroke of good fortune, been prevented. Legolas thought he should have felt proud, or at least joyful that he had been instrumental in saving the life of his dearest friends. Instead he only knew anger and uncertainty.

He grasped the assassin's black mask, curiosity and hatred driving him in his efforts to unearth this heinous and craven plot. Pulling it back, he revealed a man's face. It was rather unremarkable in features, the skin perhaps a bit darker than normal for a citizen of Gondor. Opened eyes stared blankly at those who knelt over him. The bland countenance was the sort an ordinary person might pass in a crowd and then easily forget.

Legolas was no ordinary person, however. The Elf's gaze narrowed viciously. "I know this man," he hissed. His fair face grew tight with an expression of betrayed faith. "I saw him today, just beyond the Citadel. He sported the garb of the Royal Guard, Aragorn."

Aragorn's mouth became a thin, tight line as he glanced from the dead man and his friend. "You mean to say this man infiltrated the Guard by posing as a soldier, slipped inside the Citadel, murdered the watch, and then attempted to…" He trailed off. Though he was a veteran of many bloody battles, it was obvious this attack had left him somewhat shaken. Legolas nodded. The implication was an appalling one. Minas Tirith was not infallible. The Guard had been infiltrated, its protection violated. The king was vulnerable.

Legolas shook his head, lowering his gaze. Blood spread across the floor, seeping into cloth and stone. The Elf gently pulled the man's eyelids shut, hiding the malicious intent, sparing them from the lifeless, glazed glare. Black. Soulless. There was no doubt in his mind about who was responsible for this crime.

_Easterlings._

* * *

For many there would be no more sleep that night. A call went up around the White City to raise the alarm and elevate the defenses. Though the rain was teeming and the winds fierce, the guards were quick to react to the warning. Positions were fortified with extra men, patrols augmented by additional soldiers who would lend their eyes in scouring the shadows for signs of invasion. The Gateway was reinforced and scouts were sent abroad to search the surrounding fields and groves for signs of enemy attack. It was the type of anxious, excited panic for which these fighters trained. Despite the storm's hectic and messy pounding, each knew his role, his duty to his kingdom.

Word spread quickly through the Citadel of the assault. Every candle in the great manor was lit. Maids and servants banded together, standing in corners, whispering and wondering in fear as they watched soldiers rush by them. The hunt for possible intruders in the building was rapid and scrupulous; every closet was opened and its contents exposed, every room checked, every storage area ransacked. The defense of the king's home, once thought to be flawlessly impervious, had been compromised. The thought was chilling. Now no chances would be taken and all unnecessary risks were avoided.

A great mass of men had gathered in the halls leading to the king's chambers. Many wore the black uniforms of the Guard, some glistening wetly with rain. In the narrow corridor the watch had grown dramatically, the number of soldiers on duty multiplying nearly three-fold. This they had done without order. They were silent now, but upon their hardened faces was a tale of shame and fury. Their comrades had been slain, killed in a depraved and base fashion. Even worse was the undeniable fact that they had failed in their one solemn vow: to protect their liege at all costs. It was clear from the determination etched into the rough lines of their faces that they would not again permit such an atrocity. Steadfast and passionate in their renewed promise, they allowed none passage to the king, save his most trusted advisers.

Inside the king's room the closest of Aragorn's friends had gathered. Almost immediately after the attack Aragorn had summoned Beregond, and the Captain of the White Guard arrived immediately. At seeing the body of the black-clad assassin lying upon the floor, all remnants of sleep had disappeared from the man's face. Following him was Gimli, the Dwarf grumbling disdainfully about being parted from a good dream. Yet these complaints he silenced as well when he realized what had happened.

Beregond stepped over the corpse and then dropped to his knees beside it. He knelt there a moment, his eyes quickly analyzing the scene. He tightened his jaw as he carefully lifted the bloody dagger. A look of fury passed over his face. "This is undeniably of Mordor." Legolas had thought as much. The back was wickedly curved and finely tempered, but it had subtle flaws that distinguished it from Elven or Dwarven origin. The hilt was dark and long, and it ended in a bulbous mass that strangely weighted the weapon. No smith of Gondor would have crafted such a thing, the design too foreign and the materials too unusual.

Beregond dropped the knife in disgust and wiped his hands on his breeches as he stood. "What has happened here, my King?" His voice was soft, his face shocked and his eyes burning in ire.

Aragorn angrily relayed the tale, both Beregond and Gimli paying rapt and horrified attention. When the king finished, no one spoke for a long while. It seemed far too unreal, too unbelievable to be true. Yet the evidence was painfully clear, and for all the want of their hearts, they could not deny it. Blood had been spilt this night, and it had washed away all sense of peace, of security. Though no less violent, this one death had suddenly become more paramount to their situation than all of the deaths in Cair Andros. It indicated beyond a doubt that there were indeed enemies that sought Gondor's destruction, and the nation could not be so callous as to disregard the inevitable connection between this failed assassination and the slaughter of one of its outposts.

Thunder mumbled, pushing against the stone walls of the room, rubbing against bleeding hearts. _War is coming,_ it chanted._War is coming._

Gimli shook his head, his eyes dark and furious. "I should have seen this," grumbled the Dwarf. He could not stop staring at the man's face. "We walked upon that street. He was right there, and I had a chance to stop him! Yet I was blind and did nothing." The stout warrior looked up, the great mass of his frazzled red hair shifting with the motion. "My lapse in focus has nearly cost you dearly, Aragorn, and I am infuriated by that!"

"Peace, friend Gimli," responded Aragorn to the Dwarf's pained words. He clasped the other on his shoulder. "You could not have known his intentions."

"Bah," Gimli countered, folding his arms about his broad chest, "that is hardly an excuse. Obviously the Elf knew." It was not a comment borne from jealousy or spite but rather from frustration and disgust at his own failings.

Beregond rubbed his brow tiredly. "I find it inconceivable that this worm could wriggle his way into our must trusted forces so easily!" he shouted in shameful fury. "And if they could manage that, how many more traitors and spies are littered about us, hidden under a veil of familiarity?"

None of them could offer an answer. The idea sparked within each a feeling of paranoid fear, of suspicion and haunting sorrow. So unexpected was this blow that it had left all of Minas Tirith reeling.

Yet even the most cunning of murderers left a trail.

"Sir!" came a call from the hallway. Beregond turned, casting his eyes upon a group of soldiers approaching. There were three of them, each a member of the Guard, and they pushed through to the door. One of the men spoke, his face and clothes dripping with rain, wrath apparent of his young face. "We have found something the King should see immediately."

"Then come forth, man, and bear it to him."

The White Tree heaved up and down on the man's breast as he stepped inside, dripping a grand puddle under his feet. His sodden clothes and cloak squished and shed water as he moved. He dropped to one knee before the king and bowed his head, raising his hands.

Silence.

Legolas silently released a long breath, shaking his head numbly at the sight. There could be no refutation now, no denial, no hope for some other truth.

Aragorn's face was vengeful and dark as he grasped the red banner from the man's outstretched palms. He held the flag in his open hands, the crimson silk spilling through his fingers. The gold serpent slithered along its length as though seeking to escape the prison of the cloth and sting those who had caught it. Aragorn's stare was blank, and then for the fraction of a second Legolas spied fear and hurt flash across his dear friend's eyes. Then the king's fingers curled about the standard so tightly that his knuckles were white, and his hands slightly shook as he strangled the snake. "Where did you find this?" he asked, his voice little more than a throaty whisper. Water dripped loudly to the floor as it was wrung from the cloth.

The man did not look up, but his shoulders quivered. The movement was barely perceptible. "It was hung, my Liege, upon the seventh gate where your standards once flew. There were nine others like it."

Legolas winced. He clenched a fist. _Ten banners. That is enough to replace every flag of Gondor upon that wall!_ The soldier went on his horrid tale. "All of the gate Guards were slain! All of them!"

"Preposterous!" roared Gimli. Ire burned in his dark eyes. "No one man could kill so many skilled soldiers unaided! This demon had help, and we must ferret out his compatriots before they escape or strike again!"

Aragorn's glare was fiery as he leveled it upon the Guard at his feet. "Search everywhere in the barracks. Everywhere, do you hear? Account for every uniform, for every sword, for every horse! I want them found and brought before me! Lock down this city; none shall enter or leave it until this threat is eradicated!"

Such fierce orders were unusual for the king, but Aragorn's harsh and vehement tone allowed no question. Moreover, the soldiers were eager to oblige their lord and avenge their dead. "It is done, my King!" He stood and saluted Aragorn curtly before pivoting on his heel. The other soldiers followed the man's suit, and they marched quickly from the room. Shouting echoed down the hall as orders were dispatched.

Aragorn turned to Beregond. "See that Lord Faramir is guarded as well." His voice grew soft and worried. "He is the most vulnerable at the moment, and that makes him a conspicuously easy target."

The realization bothered Beregond greatly, for his face, once flushed with anger, grew ashen and upset. "I will choose the most trusted of my men," he declared, "and I will pull those from the Guard that I know are loyal to our cause. You and the queen shall have sentries about at all times."

Aragorn was visibly not pleased with the idea. Legolas knew the look well enough, for it was the same expression the ranger wore whenever he was confronted with a problem whose solution he did not favor. Aragorn's pride ran deep, and he did not like the formalities of his responsibility. He loved his people with a fierce and powerful intensity, but often he did not realize that being their leader meant protecting his own life. He preferred to confront his enemies, to face his demons himself without others to guard him. It was a torn look, one of divided hope and fear. It signified resigning to the only option. This was the same expression he had bore when Lord Elrond had made him rest after an ill-fated hunting trip, when Boromir had confronted him at the council in Rivendell, when the Fellowship was left with no choice but to enter Moria. When the Elf prince and the human king had stood side by side atop the Deeping Wall, watching the innumerable hordes of Uruk-hai march steadily towards them.

"_Your friends are with you, Aragorn."_ He remembered what he had said that night, when all was dark and there seemed little promise of victory. _And we will always be._

The king finally nodded. "We must all be on our guard," he said slowly, quietly. These were words meant only for those present. "Some great evil is setting its will against us, and we can ill afford to lose anyone." Aragorn settled steely eyes upon Legolas and Gimli. "If our enemy is as clever as we expect, he might seek to hurt those closest to me in order to attack at me. I cannot lose either of you." The king turned to Beregond. "Perhaps a few guards can be spared for Lords Legolas an–"

The Dwarf and the Elf shared a doubtful look. "I hardly think that is necessary, Aragorn," Legolas interrupted softly. The thought annoyed him somewhat. He was no child; he could take care of himself. Long had he been a prince and a warrior, and never before had he needed a warder to watch his shadow for danger. The protective instincts inherent in leading drove Aragorn in this, the Elf knew. Still, it was unwarranted, and Legolas did not appreciate being mothered. "I highly doubt they will focus their attention upon us when there are greater targets to be had."

Arwen suddenly held Legolas' eyes. Her voice was soft, like a gentle melody, but in it he heard all her worry and concern. "It is not so, my Lord. The Elves of Ithilien are a most valuable asset to Gondor. Should the opportunity arise to strike at their leader, they will surely take it." A moment passed in which the two friends watched each other, as if truly seeing each other for the first time in quite a while. Legolas supposed that was true as he had been away from Minas Tirith for numerous weeks, but even before that, they were often called to disparate tasks and duties and rarely found the time to visit with each other. Arwen's eyes had a certain quality to them; she could delve deeply into a soul and seek out the most private of fears and secrets without ever once posing a threat or appearing the intruder. It was a gift, given to her through common blood with the Lady Galadriel, who had also possessed such a power. Long had Legolas been Arwen's confidant, and he knew her heart as well as she did his. There was naught he could hide from her. He knew she sensed his ill spirit, his nights spent twisting sleeplessly in bed, his worries and fears and grief. He felt her concern over him. So well did they know one another that she could perceive his anguish as clearly as though it were her own.

But she would never do him the injustice of speaking openly of such a private matter.

Gimli continued then, interrupting Legolas' thoughts. "Aragorn, my friend, if I may be so bold, I believe that between the two of us, we can protect ourselves. Though the Elf can be a nuisance and a want-wit in arguments, I think him to be a rather exceptional warrior, and I am, of course, no less. You need not worry about us."

Normally Legolas would have bristled at the insult. But he fixed Aragorn with a vehement stare. His face was stoic, placid. He knew his friend recognized his expressions as well. Aragorn was fettered to responsibility, to duty to his kingdom as it leader, but Legolas was not so bound. He commanded a handful of Elves and little more. He would not stand aside and lose this chance to avenge Fethra's turmoil. To avenge Tathar. _Twisted logic,_ his mind announced. _How ready you are to protect Aragorn, to push him into the shadows to spare his life. In doing so you will deny him the very same ugly goal you selfishly seek: retribution._ He could not silence his grieving heart, though.

Under the Elf's cool, unblinking eyes Aragorn finally relented. He sighed tiredly. "Very well," he said. In came a few soldiers seeking to remove the corpse from the floor. They crouched beside the assassin and then, grabbing his arms and legs, lifted him none too gently. They carried the heavy body from the room, revealing a pool of thick blood. "Let us speak on this more tomorrow, when Éomer returns from Emyn Arnen. I fear naught but worry and fear will come from further consideration this night. At dawn have a messenger dispatched to Dol Amroth to warn Prince Imrahil of what has occurred. Tell your man he must carry these words with the strictest caution. The matter is far too sensitive for any other than Imrahil's ears. Summon the other lords of the realm, as well." This the king quietly said to Beregond, and the other nodded at the request. They all knew that Aragorn gathering his lords and vassals implied but one thing. "Retire and seek rest."

After they were all of them silent. Words had failed them, for there was little left to say that could express their anger, their fear, their worry of what might come of this. In the emptiness the storm barked and muttered.

In disgust Aragorn dropped the banner of the Easterlings. It fell down slowly, floating languidly to the floor, and landed in the lake of blood. The fabric soaked up the liquid until the red of the cloth became indistinguishable from the red of the blood. And that serpent, that cruel, wicked beast, swam in it like a monster, its mouth open in a soundless cry. A voiceless declaration of war.

* * *

Not long after the Dwarf and the Elf parted company with the king and queen. Arwen had shared a few brief words with Legolas, assuring herself of his welfare. Her concern at once bothered and pleased him, and though he proclaimed to her that he was in good health, she saw the lie for what it was. Taking her hands in his own, he swore to her that he would be well when this nightmare was over, and that he would do all that was in his power to protect her and her husband. She had responded to such a proud declaration with a knowing smile, teasing him gently for his boyish cavalier. Still, she was genuinely heartened for his promise and, offering him a loving kiss on the cheek and heartfelt thanks, she bade him to sleep.

Gimli stalked darkly down the busy hall. "Rest," he grumbled as they reached the corridor along which their rooms were situated. "Only a fool could think such a thing possible!"

Legolas' eyes were distant, his mind racing with the night's terribly happenings. "Aragorn is no fool, Master Dwarf," he commented off-handedly. "Patience is a trait you lack, and that seems to be our only sure ally at the moment."

The short creature mumbled disdainfully, clearly vexed. Although Legolas greatly adored the gruff Dwarf, he was the first to admit that patience was a foreign thing to Gimli. He valued action and decisiveness. He abhorred waiting for a path to become clear. He was a creature of little restraint when it came to matters of combat and peril. It had been Gimli, after all, who had first tried to smash the One Ring with his mighty axe at Elrond's council. The action had been futile, as the evil of the Ring could not be so easily undone. Still, it spoke volumes of Gimli's readiness to act, no matter the danger or consequence.

It was another matter of contention between their two races. Elves, and especially Legolas who was deeply connected with nature and nature in turn with him, could for hours sit perfectly still and listen to the songs of the earth. Longevity demanded patience. Dwarves had not such poise and self-discipline, but they were quick thinkers and grasped matters for their simple worth easily. The two had shared many debates in the past over this issue.

Silently they continued to their rooms. Legolas' was first, and they drew to a halt at his door. The once dark corridor was now bright, the candles burning evenly from every sconce. Gimli looked to the window blankly, and Legolas watched him and waited expectantly. "Perhaps we ought spend the night in each other's company," the Dwarf finally mumbled. His eyes were averted sheepishly.

Legolas smiled. He had thought the same, for it seemed no one was safe this evening. Even so, he could not pass up this perfect opportunity for jeering his friend. "Afraid?"

The Dwarf needled him with a stony glare. "Of course not!" he proudly huffed, shaking his head angrily at his companion. "I merely suggest that you care as well for Fethra, and my eyes can only help you in guarding your charge."

The archer raised an eyebrow at Gimli's words. "A fair idea, Master Dwarf. After you, then." Legolas opened the door and allowed Gimli's entrance. He could not help but glance around the hall for hazardous signs or evidence of threat. There was nothing. _Your mind escapes you. _Then he slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him and locking it.

Inside, lightning weakly bathed the room. The storm was beginning to pass, the thunder quieter and less insistent in its fury. The splatter of rain blowing against the window was quiet and peaceful. Gimli stood at the foot of the large bed as his Elven comrade stepped around him to check on Fethra. Much to Legolas' relief, she slept still. Fondly he tucked the quilt about her tiny body. His hands seemed so long and great compared to her delicate frame.

Then he turned to his friend. Gimli was observing him with a bemused expression. "I never thought you such a father, Elf," he said in as soft a whisper a Dwarf could manage. "You hardly look older than a child yourself." He chuckled.

"You amuse yourself far too easily," said Legolas. By the large window in the room were two great, cushioned maroon chairs. This room had been gifted to the Elf for this reason, as the sizeable open area was less constrictive to a creature that thrived upon fresh air, stars, and trees. Legolas cared little for closed spaces and stones, but he had learned to tolerate the claustrophobic aspects of living in such locales. His father's manor, which was buried deep in a mountainous cave, was not so different, and he had long grown accostumed to that.

Tiredly he sank into one of the chairs, his normal mask of grace and indifference falling away before his dear friend. Gimli sat as well, though the furniture was a bit too large from him. The Elf regarded him through half-lidded eyes. "Ai," he moaned softly, "I am tired, Gimli. So very tired."

He could feel the Dwarf's eyes upon him, analyzing him, gauging the vitality of his body and spirit. "Sleep then, you crazy Elf. You ask too much of yourself. You are not perfect, and nobody expects you to be."

"You sound too much like my father, Gimli." His open broaching of this subject surprised them both, but he was too weary to care much for decorum at the moment. "He expected nothing of me, and in a way, I think that has driven me more than any aspiration anyone else has ever had for me."

Gimli grunted his agreement. Few times in the past, before King Thranduil had sailed to the Undying Lands, they had spoken of the Elf prince's troubled relationship with his father. Gimli knew it was a great source of pain and sadness for his friend. "Legolas," he began. The Elf cracked open an eye. Gimli rarely addressed him by his given name, and when he did, what he was about to say was important and heartfelt. This time was no exception. "Your father is not here. He does not bear upon your decisions. Do not press yourself so. Immortality I suppose is a great gift, but it is also a hefty curse. I see the weight of time in your eyes now and then, and though I have heard you are young for your kind, you seemed to have aged many years in the short period I have known you."

Legolas looked outside, watching the water stream down the clear pane of the window. Endless was its wash. For each drop that fell, another was there to take its place. Like minutes of time. Like waves of the sea. "Nothing lasts forever, Gimli. Even Elves."

The comment did not sit well with the Dwarf. "Do not speak of it! The end may be inevitable, for Aragorn and Lady Arwen, for me, for you… but not so of our friendship. We have much ahead of us. Nothing can make that promise disappear. Nothing can sever the ties between us save death, and though she is a wicked and wily creature, she will not outsmart us both."

The words were meant to console, but they only broke through the dam Legolas had erected around his pain. Before he could even think to stifle them, hot tears broke from his eyes. "Ai, Gimli! Gimli!" he gasped. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. Long blond locks fell down his frame, quivering as his shoulders shook. "I failed Tathar so terribly. For millennia he fought under my father's command. My father so loved him for his wisdom and talent, and he returned that love in loyalty and friendship! And in my defense he died… _My_ defense!" He wept piteously, openly for the first time in a great many years. "There was a place for him in Valinor. Yet he stayed because _I_ asked him to stay. And now… now he is dead! This pain is so great!"

Gimli said nothing, simply allowing Legolas to cry. The Dwarf did not try to assuage his guilt or rationalize his actions. Words were inappropriate, unneeded and artificial. The unsoiled quiet dragged onward, filled with naught but the soft patter of the rain and the gentle sobbing of the Elf. Rain and tears fell and fell, letting loose pent up anguish and grief.

Finally Legolas collected himself. He swallowed a sob, his breath quaking. He wiped the wetness from his cheeks. Then he looked up.

Gimli only offered him a friendly grin. The Dwarf reached across the small space between them and grasped Legolas' knee. The grip was firm and strong. The silence persisted a bit longer. Then the Elf flushed with absolute embarrassment, ashamed he had so blatantly and without regard broken apart before his friend. Elves were not so weak, so flustered! He gritted his teeth and averted his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak some excuse for his behavior.

"Do not apologize, Elf." Legolas looked to Gimli. The Dwarf nodded, his small, dark eyes knowing. "You needed that, and do not even try to tell me otherwise. I know you too well for such a shallow remark. Do not insult us both with nonsense."

In spite of all his turmoil, Legolas smiled. As much as he was loathed to admit it, Gimli was right. He _had_ needed that, and it had felt strangely wonderful to cry, to vent his pain. He laid his hand over Gimli's and squeezed it. "Thank you, Gimli."

"Indeed."

They sat in a companionable quiet for a bit, both content to watch the rain. A few meager flashes of lightning still sparked the sky every so often, but they were weak and distant. Thoughts swirled and swirled in a maelstrom of endless concern and contemplation. Legolas finally whispered, "I suppose war will soon be upon us."

Gimli grunted. "Aye." They were both battle-hardened soldiers. They knew the signs of an attack plainly enough. There was no simple matter. Maybe it had once been, but now it could never be.

The Elf sighed tiredly. "Peace is far too tenuous a thing."

"Aye."

He darted a glance at Gimli from the corner of his eyes. The Dwarf was calm, his eyes clouded and peaceful. Legolas smiled weakly. _I am glad you came here this eve. I am glad you know my heart._ But he did not voice these thoughts. He did not need to.

They spoke no more after that. Legolas watched the storm release its grasp upon Minas Tirith and wondered at the new tempest approaching. For a long while he sat, thinking of everything and nothing. Every so often he would glance to Gimli. The Dwarf had fallen asleep some time ago, his chin pressed to his chest, snoring loudly. Legolas chuckled softly. This creature had the most abominable snore. It seemed to shake the very room.

Time passed slowly. The Elf sank into his thoughts, finding himself oddly detached from his emotions. The pain did not touch him. The grief was gone. Even the aches of his body did not pierce his apathy. For hours did he stare outside. This vantage was high above the city, and he could see many small buildings and trees and roads. He imagined the city in the throes of war. Would such a nightmare come to pass? Black grew to gray, and slowly light began to creep over Minas Tirith. Would this city survive another conflict so bitter and violent? Would Mordor reach from the shadows again to strangle the Free Peoples of Middle Earth?

A red sun rose, peeking through the rain clouds, ending an endless bout of darkness. Only then did Legolas realize another night had passed and another dawn had come.

He had not slept.


	8. Seeking Answers

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER EIGHT: SEEKING ANSWERS**

The morning proved to be a busy one. All the city awoke with the dawn, and the news of the night's assassination attempt spread like wildfire. On every street scuttlebutt passed from butcher to smith to cobbler, the merchants sharing gossip with their daily customers, women chatting quickly of what they had heard and from whom they had heard it. The muted cacophony of sound pulsed and buzzed as though the houses and shops themselves vibrated. The hum throbbed with confusion, with fear and anger. Fact meshed with speculation, speculation mixed with rumor, and rumor quickly became an itching sense of panic. For hundreds of years had the Citadel remained the ultimate symbol of security; no enemy had ever breached the seventh gate. It seemed utterly preposterous and impossible that somehow an assassin had slipped inside the fortress and nearly murdered their king and queen. The people did not understand, and their frustrated and frightened ignorance left them riled and uneasy. The search for answers from friends and strangers alike became a hungry and desperate quest for truth amidst uncertainty.

Legolas held tight to Fethra's hand. The streets were quite crowded this morning, teeming with peddlers pushing their wares and anxious people rushing about their chores. They were tense as they struggled to direct their thoughts from this mysterious threat to mundane matters. His sharp hearing caught snippets of conversations as they walked along the congested road.

"I heard it was one man, and that he killed nearly half the Royal Guard!"

"Nay, it was said there were two at least, and their blades were laced with Morgul poisons…"

"For the King my heart does cry! How could this have happened?"

"All of Minas Tirith is closed! Do you suppose the assassin remains in the city?"

"Bloody tyrant. I had business in Lossarnach this morn, but there's no leaving."

"My brother works at the stables and he swore he saw a man atop the seventh gate last night in the rain, standing very still, as though waiting…"

"The Elf Lord saved the King. How could he have known?"

"Those Elves are dangerous folk, I tell you. They see far too much. Once a tale came to me of an Elf who could sweep your senses from you with only a glance. He could take your mind. Foul creatures!"

"The King would do right to break the old alliances. Never trust an Elf!"

Legolas gritted his teeth in anger. Those last racist comments had come from a group of large, burly men standing outside one of the city's numerous smiths. Great puffs of smoke ringed their heads as they spewed their prejudices in loud tones. Legolas bristled, narrowing his eyes as a particularly scathing comment reached his ears. _Never mind all that Elves have done for men. Never mind the Last Alliance that broke the chains of Mordor that had encased your fair city! Never mind the blood of Elf-kind spilt at Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields so that men might be forgiven for their love of power, for their love of the Ring! Never mind any of that!_

The men laughed at some crude joke, but they grew stiffly quiet as Legolas passed. The Elf glared at them, his icy eyes dangerous. They did not meet his gaze, their faces blushing red with embarrassed rage. But the prince stalked by them silently, finding no words could express his anger.

"Let it go, lad," said Gimli. His stout friend was at his other side, regarding him with placid eyes. Legolas was mildly surprised to find Gimli so peaceful about the situation. Normally it was the Dwarf whose temper flared in the face of insult or injustice, and typically at such times it was the Elf whose calm prevented an undesirable episode. Yet Gimli's face was lax as he gently grasped at Legolas' arm. "They are hardly worth the thought."

Legolas' blue eyes blazed brightly. "They dishonor their king," he said lowly and evenly, "and their queen. They dishonor Gondor's past."

"And they are ignorant whelps," surmised Gimli. The Dwarf shook his head as he regarded his friend. "To expect complete approval even in times of peace is foolhardy and naïve."

"That is hardly consolation."

Gimli grunted. "The truth rarely is."

They continued on, making their way slowly towards the Houses of Healing. The morning was quickly disappearing, and it seemed to Legolas that far more time had passed than a few simple hours. Already had Arwen had paid them a visit shortly before the morning's meal. The queen had been quite entranced by Fethra, offering her great smiles and gentle hugs. Fethra had squealed in delight at the queen's promises of songs and dolls. Without Legolas even asking, Arwen knew of his concerns, and she sent her personal seamstresses to acquire patterns and cloth for new clothes for the child. The enchanting Evenstar had within minutes formed a fast and loving relationship with Fethra. Legolas had really expected no less.

They had joined Aragorn for a private breakfast. As Legolas thought of it now, "privacy" was a term now open to many interpretations. Guards had stood upon the sunlit terrace, their eyes ever watchful of the buildings below. At the doors as well they were stationed. The king's life had become a matter of extreme importance and national security, and he was not to be left undefended at any time. Legolas watched the emotions play across Aragorn's face as they had taken their meal. He was obviously none too pleased with the idea, frustration and anger forming a thin line of his lips, his eyes glancing every so often to his newfound retinue of guards. He made a good enough attempt to hide his discontent from the others, but Legolas knew him too well and saw these signs clearly enough. Aragorn did not appreciate being treated like a caged animal, and the Elf did not envy him his position.

Fethra had sat, excitedly eating fruit and bread, kicking at Gimli from under the table. Though no one would speak of the attack the night before in front of the sweet child, it was foremost on each mind. It was a needling worry, a pain that was winding tight the spirit. They talked of trivial things to distract weary minds from pressing concerns. Even with the daylight streaming through the open terrace, the morning had been dark with dread. Even with Fethra's laughter at Gimli's antics, with Aragorn's knowing smiles and Arwen's gentle, kind words, the time had been tainted with unspoken fear. Legolas had sat, speaking little, eating even less. He listened numbly as his dearest friends spoke of some past tale and felt terribly afraid that this quiet moment might be the last for a great long while. He knew it deep inside, and it ached in his bones.

They were nearly at the Houses of Healing. Word had quickly come to the Citadel that the Steward had regained wakefulness this morn, and that he was surprisingly lucid. It had been a most welcome interruption to their breakfast. However, under the orders of the king's advisers, Aragorn was not permitted to leave the Citadel until it was certain that no further threat existed within in Minas Tirith. The king's face had flushed angrily at the restriction, and only Arwen's calming voice and restraining hand had prevented Aragorn from boxing the page's ears. Legolas did not know if he particularly agreed with the advisers. Certainly the king needed protection. Should Aragorn fall, Gondor would be left without an heir. The bloodline of the House of Elendil would disappear from all existence. Yet the action was perhaps a bit rash, and Aragorn was certainly an experienced and worthy fighter. He was wise and responsible and surely no simpleton when it came to matters of caution.

In either case, the Elf, the Dwarf, and the child had rushed to the streets to confirm Faramir's recovery. And now they stood, for the gate to the courtyard into the House of Healing was blocked by a big crowd of people, and there was no path through the mess.

Confusion creased Legolas' brow. There was shouting and crying. Gimli huffed, straining his form to stand as tall as he could. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Patience, Gimli," Legolas said softly. The Elf narrowed his eyes and glanced about the wild crowd. Women were sobbing, turning their heads and wailing piteously. Men were ashen-faced, their eyes distant and frightened. The air had grown still, tight, and hot. Fear flooded through Legolas.

_Faramir._

Could there have been an attempt on his life? Could he have…

There was a tugging at his hand. Fethra shook her head insistently, pulling at his fingers. "Can't see, Leglass!" she whined, looking up at him with imploring green eyes.

Not even thinking, he crouched and pulled her into his arms. She giggled joyously, but he hardly heard her so sweeping was this sudden panic. "Come on, Gimli!" he yelled. He did not even wait to see if his companion heeded his command, his long legs carrying him quickly and gracefully through the mob. Lithely he stepped around man and woman, dodging quick turns and sudden actions, and finally he traversed the distance into the House of Healing.

It was oddly hot and dark inside, and the air smelled sweet with the tang of blood. Lady Ioreth stopped, standing still in her rushed movements momentarily as Legolas burst past the guards stationed at the door. He met the woman's large, dark eyes, searching her frantically for signs of grief, for evidence confirming his worst fears. "What has happened?" he gasped, his white lips hardly moving.

She seemed frozen, paralyzed by panic and sorrow. An endless moment dragged by them, filled with Legolas' thundering heart and waning hopes. Then she whispered, "You had better hurry, my Lord." She turned, her skirts flying with a swish.

He followed her down the hallway, shushing Fethra as she squirmed in his embrace. Door after door he passed until they entered one of the large rooms. It was equipped with many beds, ideally suited to care for the multitudes of wounded battles often produced.

Legolas' eyes widened.

Faramir looked up at his entrance and held his gaze. The gray orbs flickered with pain and grief and fury, turning shades lighter and darker as the sun wafted through the curtains covering the windows. The Steward was kneeling beside a bed, dressed in a loose tunic and his traveling breeches. Sweat lined his forehead. But his gaze was clear of fever or delirium. "Linhir has fallen."

The ranger looked back to the bed. Upon it was a man. He was so filthy with mud, soot, and dirt that his skin and hair seemed nearly black. He was dressed in a ripped and sullied uniform, the simple sort of garb that a militia soldier might sport. He was young, more a boy than a man. Gray eyes helplessly searched the ceiling.

Legolas stepped inside slowly, watching as Ioreth rushed to tend to the patient. Carefully he set Fethra to the floor, and she clung to him fearfully. There was a booming voice and the thud of short legs running. Gimli burst inside the room, his chest and beard heaving as he struggled to catch his wind. "You blasted Elf! Wait when I tell you!" But then the Dwarf hushed his angry reprimands as he, too, saw the poor soul lying upon the bed.

The Elf stepped silently, his horrified eyes never leaving the mangled body before them. He knelt beside Faramir. This young man had been beaten quite badly, tortured it seemed, for his form was a mess of bloody lacerations and grime covered bruises. His clothes were caked with drying and fresh blood and mud. The bones of his forearm protruded sickly from ashen flesh. The entire left side of his face was burned. His eye was a mass of blood and molten flesh. All that escaped him was a wheezing breath that barely even rattled from his broken chest.

Legolas had never seen such deliberate brutality, and he had lived through and participated in more than his fair share of battles and wars. The Elf peered closely, holding his breath. He gently peeled away the blackened tunic. He winced. Upon the man's sternum, he had been branded. The burnt skin was horridly enflamed and washed in blood, but the symbol was terrifyingly clear.

The serpent.

Legolas closed his eyes and looked away. "Sweet Elbereth," he whispered. His heart quaked in rage and agony. The fury was immense, and for a moment he sank into it, drowning in its chilly grasp. The prince laid his hand over the hideous wound, praying somehow to erase the mark from this boy, to take from him the pain he must have suffered, to ease his passing. But he was only an Elf. He could not change the past anymore than he could see the future.

The boy suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him close. Legolas' eyes snapped open and he found himself staring into the ruined face. The lad's good eye glinted in something he did not understand. Recognition, perhaps. Then another hand wrapped around the back of Legolas' head, pulling him down. His ear was close to the ripped and oozing lips. He could feel the heat of a dying breath against his cheek. "They know you," came a harsh whisper. "They see you…" The bloody fingers tightened in his hair. "I see you… I see… I see… I…"

The grip became slack, and the maimed hand fell limply to the bed. The young man's eye rolled back into its socket, and he choked out a final whimper. His crushing grasp on Legolas' hand weakened. His body shook once. Then he was still.

Legolas released a slow breath as he leaned back. There was crying and then the soft words of Ioreth. "Turn your eyes away, child. Master Dwarf, let her not look upon this terrible sight!"

Faramir lowered his eyes, his hands clenched into furious fists upon the bed. "Monsters," he hissed. The Steward struggled to his feet, shrugging off help. "Vile monsters!" They had rarely heard such rage in the normally calm man's voice, but Faramir was livid, his eyes glowing brightly with the heat of his anger. "How many have they slaughtered? Butchered?" raged Faramir breathlessly. "Every man, woman, and child!"

The Elf gently set the dead boy's hand across his chest. He narrowed his eyes, his mind racing with questions and worries. Something was very strange about these wounds… They were aged, some newly scabbed with the newest hints of healing skin. A great deal of the bloody gore that covered the lad was dry. "They tortured this man. These wounds are many days old," breathed the Elf. His eyes flashed venomously. He stood and cast furious eyes upon Faramir. "They did not simply raze Linhir. They must have taken captive its people."

Faramir leaned against the bedpost. "Why do such a thing?" he asked, his face sickly pale. "And why release this man? Surely his wounds were too great for him to escape! They gave him a horse and tied him to the saddle…"

Legolas shook his head darkly. "To tell us." His lips hardly moved with the words. "To gloat. To flaunt their advantage."

"Which is?" Gimli questioned, his voice uncharacteristically unsettled.

The Elf held Faramir's gaze. Legolas' normally calm face was fractured in uneasy dismay. "That they can see."

For a long while no one spoke. Even Fethra, who could not have understood the meaning of these traumatic happenings, was quiet in Ioreth's arms. Legolas stood perfectly still, his quick and acute mind digesting all that had occurred and trying desperately to make some sense of it. There was one terribly obvious conclusion. As implausible as it had once seemed and as disturbing as it now was, it was frightfully undeniable. No matter how else he considered the facts, he was left with but one conclusion. _Spies._

Faramir had clearly come to the same supposition, for his tired eyes sought his friend's for assurance. "They see all," whispered Legolas, "and we are blind."

The words hurt, stabbing into their sense of security, of control, of worth. Faramir swallowed uncomfortably and closed his eyes. He sank onto the edge of the bed. Gimli jumped forward to steady him. "Easy, Master Ranger, you are weak yet!"

"Go, Legolas," Faramir gasped. He squinted, struggling to catch his breath, leaning forward and bracing his arms on his knees as he bowed his head. "Go and speak to Aragorn quickly."

The Elf knelt before Faramir. "We must be discrete, Faramir." Legolas dropped his tone to a hushed whisper, grabbing his friend's knee. "I doubt you have been told, but last night there was an attempt upon Aragorn's life." Faramir's eyes widened and his face grew pale. "Both he and the Queen are safe."

"Surely you do not think one of the Guard or one of his advisers would betray us…" Faramir trailed off as Legolas offered Gimli a sidelong glance. The man did not miss their exchange and surmised for himself the gravity of what had occurred while he had recovered. The young Steward seemed older and wearied. He averted his eyes in despair. "Ai… Dark are these tidings!"

"I will go and seek a private audience with him. The advisers push for constant supervision. They have already barred his exit from the Citadel for safety's sake," Legolas declared. "He will hold a council meeting tonight as soon as Éomer returns from Emyn Arnen."

"Éomer rode to my manor?" questioned Faramir, his face slightly surprised and even more worried. "Surely my wife was not summoned over this bit of injury…"

"It is no bit, Faramir. You very nearly died," Gimli reminded him. The Dwarf's face was riddled with anger and doubt. "And we can ill afford to lose anybody. Black times are coming to Gondor and her allies."

Faramir released a slow breath. "I pray that is not so, Gimli." The ranger turned and held Legolas' gaze. Neither of them spoke, but Legolas understood what Faramir meant to say in the silence. For the briefest period of time there was no danger, no immediate peril, no uncertainty, rage, or fear. The man was offering the Elf a token of gratitude both for their unyielding and newly restored friendship and for what Legolas had done for him. The pain of the memory was still a bit too near for words, but the emotion was there and strong. And with Faramir's forgiveness, Legolas felt the last of his guilt over what happened at Cair Andros fade away.

"I will take my leave then," said the Elf, offering Faramir a weak smile of thanks himself. The Steward nodded and then sadly looked to the healers as they covered the dead soldier's body and removed it from the bed.

Legolas then turned quickly, striding to Ioreth. The middle-aged woman held Fethra in her arms, and the child seemed content enough. The Elf helplessly glanced between the little girl and the woman, knowing time was short and feeling utterly wretched at leaving Fethra unattended. But Ioreth was wise and kind. "Worry not, my Lord. I shall tend her until you return."

Relieved, Legolas looked to Fethra and reached out a finger to sweep a wayward lock of red hair from the child's brow. "I will return when I am able," he swore. "Mind Lady Ioreth, little one."

Fethra nodded, thankfully content with being left with little more than a stranger. Then the Elf turned and raced back to the Citadel. Dark and treacherous were his thoughts. The king would not be pleased.

* * *

A red dawn became a red day, it seemed, and all of Minas Tirith was washed with blood. Hundreds slaughtered, so said the rumors flying about the streets, homes, and shops. Hundreds upon hundreds. Cair Andros… Linhir… Terror took hold of the people, and for all their desperate want of solace there was none to be found. The Citadel was achingly quiet. From it came no resolution of action or reassurance of hope. There were simply no answers, and with the governing body's silence came only a greater dread that indeed malice marred the future. Panic pushed its way into the normally calm hearts of the citizens. Minas Tirith had long known despair and death, but peace had been too alluring and pleasing a gift to so easily abandon again for a wartime mentality. Was this city forever doomed to unrest? Was it doomed to another long, bloody, and hopeless conflict?

Would it never find peace?

Legolas closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The Elf released a slow breath, trying to will his tired body and mind into some semblance of attention. It had been hours since he had reported to Aragorn the substance of the soldier's demise, and, as expected, Aragorn had been quite riled at the news. In hushed tones and as far from the guards as possible, they had discussed the matter, speaking in rapid, fluid Sindarin, hoping that alone would be enough to hide what they said. Legolas had watched the emotions flash across his friend's eyes and knew they mirrored his own, sharing with him the pain, the fury, and the cursed inevitability of the situation. They could come to no conclusions. It made so little sense. If the Easterlings sought war, why expend such energy as to hold an entire town prisoner for numerous days before mindlessly executing its entire population? Why release one man? That poor soul must have been purposely deposited in close proximity to Minas Tirith, else he would have naturally fled to the closer city of Dol Amroth. It was chilling, these snippets of evidence, and they so poorly meshed to form any sort of cohesive picture. Indeed the man had been brutalized and mangled for days, and that certainly meant their enemy had taken Linhir days before razing Cair Andros. There was simply no way for one army to be in two distant locations within that same period of time, at least not without Gondor's knowledge. This, of course, led to a most disturbing question: how large was their opponent's force? Linhir was no weakling township; as one of Dol Amroth's main principalities, it was well equipped with militia and supplies. It was greatly populated. How many men did their enemy boast? Two of Gondor's territories had been so swiftly and silently terrorized and crushed…

And this was perhaps most unnerving of all. If indeed the Easterlings had taken Linhir and held that bustling and prosperous township captive for days, they had done so without the slightest indication of their act. Imrahil's silence was troubling, for surely he would have sent word of an attack. How could such a thing be? It seemed preposterous and utterly unthinkable. Legolas and Aragorn could scarce imagine the discipline, the meticulous planning and attention to detail, the utter strength of will required to successfully manipulate the situation. It was a terrifying thought, for it indicated that these attackers were not the product of the sloppy, uncalculated rage of a rabble. Something far more sinister drove them for such careful and patient orchestration of their acts.

It was all unnerving, for Gonder had been none the wiser that these foul plots were afoot. For all their contemplation, for all their twisting and turning of the problem, for all the pleas of their angry and grieving souls, they could find no answers. They could not unravel this plot. It frustrated Aragorn and Legolas greatly, as they were both intelligent and clever and talented in the ways of thought and war. If there were answers to be had, it would be no easy task in finding them.

Legolas had asked Aragorn what the king thought their next course of action should be. It was a distressing moment because for the first time in a great long while, Aragorn was fazed and uncertain. Should they pull their forces from Southern Ithilien? Should they reinforce Emyn Arnen? Both were easy targets as neither was overly reinforced but populated enough. The Elven colony was still under construction; it lacked ramparts, and only a few of the buildings could withstand the pummel of siege equipment. Though Emyn Arnen was in a better state, it as well hardly boasted a standing army. Yet abandoning Ithilien meant the northeastern towns would be left unprotected, and Gondor would lose its flank. To them both it was a terribly convoluted, tricky situation, and as much as the moment demanded action, there was no clear course to take. Aragorn had decided it best to simply wait until they could confer with the lords of Gondor. The idea was not overly alluring, but Legolas had to agree it was the only option afforded them.

After that the Elven Lord of Ithilien had sought out his own people. His company had been allotted rooms in the Citadel, and he required their attention for a few brief orders. Most knew the situation enough to understand their commander's thinly veiled apprehension. Legolas instructed them to be alert of all that occurred about them and report any aberration to him. If he could trace this black foreboding that had plagued him for days, perhaps they could as well, and certainly additional minds and senses tracking the problem would be beneficial. He also ordered that inventory be taken of what supplies remained in Ithilien. He was sure Aragorn would like to know exactly what gifts would be left for the Easterlings should they be forced to abandon their home. Mostly, though, he had just wanted to assure himself that they were well and that their morale was hearty enough. His discussion with Aragorn had heightened his worries about Ithilien and his people. Greatly troubling him now was a fear that the last of Middle Earth's Elves would be massacred, much as the people of Cair Andros and Linhir had been. To the Easterlings, Ithilien was a crucial territory to possess, and he knew it was poorly fortified. Waves of fear and anger assailed him as he pictured his new home ablaze, the Elves he had so recently come to command laid to waste by the same violent fury he had witnessed in Cair Andros. He could not allow that to happen.

From there he had returned to the Houses of Healing. Faramir had fallen asleep again during his absence, the emotional and physical strain of the events obviously exhausting his wounded body. Gimli assured him that the Steward was well enough, though wholly troubled by the assassination attempt on Aragorn and the attack upon Linhir. The Dwarf himself was dark, his face wound tight with barely controlled fury. Legolas had laid a comforting hand on Gimli's shoulder as they stood at the foot of Faramir's bed, watching their wounded comrade rest. Then Gimli had retired, stating that he intended to send word to the Glittering Caves. Though his people were also few in numbers, he was sure they would be willing to aid Gondor.

Legolas had acquired Fethra soon after that. The little girl had had quite a good time playing with Ioreth's family. The lady healer had informed the Elf that Fethra had eaten her lunch and spent the hours chasing other children in the Houses' wide and beautiful gardens. Legolas had stood a moment and watched their play. The day was warm and bright, despite its horrid beginning, and musical laughter filled the air. There was quite a large brood, though Legolas doubted all of them were of blood relation to Ioreth. Over the years the kindly woman had adopted many an orphaned child. She was quite the amorous mother and caregiver, stern and commanding when the moment required but never condescending. Oft had the Elf witnessed her fiery passion for life, and she poured it into loving her family and her city with all her heart. She was a great asset to all of Gondor.

Fethra had been elated to see him, readily abandoning the other children to leap into his embrace. She prattled about all she had done with the children for a bit as Legolas took her back to the Citadel, explaining to him about one of Ioreth's boys who had of late come into possession of some new game. Legolas had listened to her, smiling and encouraging her stories, but his mind was gone in a swirl of uneasy contemplation. Something about what that dying soldier had said to him was poisoning his mood with frustrated doubt. He needed some place quiet.

So he had gone to the sanctum of Gondor's massive libraries. Down below the Tower of Ecthelion, great winding vaults housed endless stacks of books and memoirs, writings of ages passed. They told lavish and wondrous tales of lore, written about people and places of the world's history in languages long forgotten. Great tales of might, tomes of wars and myths, personal diaries, treatises on government, essays concerning Elves and men and Dwarves… These things had come to find eternal rest in the tombs below the White Tower, where rarely did they now see light. Few now lived who could decipher the ancient scrawls of their authors, and they had been left to rot in the dank dungeons. The Elf had hoped to find _something_, some piece of information that might yield an answer to the questions disturbing him. He was not certain what had made him so certain he would find information down here among the ghosts of the past, but he was certain, nonetheless. At least, he had been. Now he was beginning to think he might have been mistaken.

Legolas stared down at the words of Quenya laid elegantly into the stained parchment before him. He was by no means a scholar, but he knew enough of the ancient language to decipher most of its meaning. It was some sort of log one of the sons of Feänor had kept during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. The account spoke of Maglor slaying the duplicitous Uldor, the son of Ulfang the Black who had betrayed the Elves. It was a rather long tale, littered with sorrow over Caranthir's death and rage over the loss of the Silmaril. Yet it revealed nothing of the ways of the Easterlings. Apparently, even so many years back they were but a shadow, a mystery that spoke with not words, but with violence.

Frustrated, the Elf dropped the leaf unto the stack before him. A few candles were burning wearily, shedding yellow light into the small room, chasing back the oppressive blanket of shadows. So deep below the Tower was this vault that no sunlight could find its way inside it. The fair prince nearly shuddered; how he hated such enclosed places!

Legolas looked to the pile of books and rolled parchment he had collected from the disorganized stacks. The sheer volume of it was discouraging to say the least. Already he had read of Wainriders, of the terrible war in Ithilien during the Battle of the Camp in the Third Age. Gondor had nearly fallen then when its fiercest enemies, the Wainriders and the Haradrim, had joined forces and launched their attack upon the nation. King Ondoher and his two sons had been killed during the assault, and the line of Kings had not truly recovered since. Much had been written about that time, for there had been great unrest and fear that Gondor would fall. Yet, still, he could find little about the men of Harad themselves. Of their customs the scribes had recorded naught, save that they were fierce and cunning. Apparently much effort had been placed in glorifying the victorious Battle of the Camp, during which Eärnil II had earned respect enough to take the throne in the wake of the war. Legolas found great gaps in the accounts, the missing pages likely lost to time or laziness. The Elf found it inconceivable that there was so little information present about the Easterlings, given Gondor's long and terrible history with them. Could men possibly be so unobservant of their foes? He did not know, but it was a depressing thought.

The words began to blur, and he was wearied of study. He stood slowly and stepped to the small cot where Fethra had fallen asleep. The child had not been overly supportive of his decision to spend the remainder of the day with his thoughts buried in books, whining, moaning, and doing just about everything and anything in her power to gain his attention. He had grown frustrated with her, but he had shoved aside his annoyance and pulled her struggling form into his lap. She had immediately smiled and started bouncing happily, playing with his hair. Suspecting that she was probably a bit more tired than she would have him believe, he began to tell her the story of the making of the world, of Ilüvatar's song and the Valar. He spoke of Elves and men and Dwarves. As interested as she was in his melodies and tales, soon enough her eyes had begun to droop. She had fallen asleep, her tiny form nestled in his arms, not long after that. Extremely pleased with himself, he had deposited her on the cot that must have once served the keeper of this vault and went back to his research.

Now he sat on the small bed. His side began to throb again. Only in the quiet moments, when he could not direct his attention elsewhere, did his wound trouble him. He lay down to relieve the strain on his hurting ribs and chest, and he draped his sore arm across his stomach. Fethra unconsciously snuggled closer to him, and he wrapped his other arm about her.

Blankly he stared at the stacks of books against the far wall. His mind was racing with names and places, with dates and events, but he could not put the facts together to form any sort of cohesive picture. The image of the poor lad who had died this day flitted across his mind relentlessly, and he closed his eyes. _"They know you…" Spies, surely. Already they have infiltrated our forces._ And yet… the conclusion did not satisfy him. The way the boy's eye had centered upon him and only him. _"They see you." _This was more than a simple message. It had been a clue to look elsewhere. _"I see."_

_I see._

Legolas opened his eyes and sat up quickly.

_Of course! How could I have been so blind?_


	9. To Rack and Ruin

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER NINE: TO RACK AND RUIN**

"Gimli!"

The Dwarf turned at Legolas' call. His small eyes widened at his friend's swift approach, and he halted his walk. "Fool Elf! Where have you been? Has that simple mind of yours become so lost in trees and stars to not realize the hours spent?"

Legolas stopped momentarily. The thought bothered him so he took the time to consider Gimli's words, pausing in his racing thoughts to realize that the day had disappeared. It was evening now, and the purple twilight visible through the open windows of the Tower of Ecthelion. Apparently much more time than he had originally estimated had passed during his excursion into the depths of the libraries. He fitted Gimli with an apologetic stare, chastising himself silently for his lapse in sense. "I have been in the vaults, Gimli, and I–"

The Dwarf shook his head and pulled his companion close to the wall of the corridor. The cool stone brushed roughly against Legolas' arm, and the Elf narrowed his eyes, wondering at Gimli's forcefulness. "You have not heard, then," the stout creature surmised in a hushed tone.

He shook his head dumbly, adjusting Fethra's sleeping form a bit upon his shoulder. "What?"

Gimli's eyes darted about the busy hallway for a moment. Pages and servants rushed around, carrying themselves with tension and doubt. A great ruckus had claimed the normally quiet Tower, filling its typically vacant passages with commotion. In a short time the king would assemble his lords in the great meeting hall, and much work was being done to prepare the room for the important event. The Dwarf's face was taut with anxiety and anger. When he grew satisfied that his words would fall upon Legolas' ears alone, he began to explain the source of his distress. "Prince Imrahil arrived but an hour ago. His party was attacked in transit."

The Elf felt his weary muscles tighten in anger and apprehension. He did not like the furious glint in Gimli's eyes nor the implication of those few words. And he did not like the question he found himself asking yet again. "How many were killed?"

"All save four."

A nearby maid dropped a tray of dishes. The crack of shattering glass filled the air, resounding down the great hall and echoing off the dark, vaulted ceilings. "So many?" Legolas whispered.

Gimli's black eyes were squinted in contempt. "Aye," he answered, his voice throaty and strained with emotion, "including one of the prince's sons."

The Elf closed his eyes and leaned into the cool stone. Despite himself and his race he was glad for the strength of rock. It was hard and firm against his skin, and it seemed to draw away from him the heat of his anger, the blaze of his anguish, and the pain of his exhausted body. Unyielding, unwavering, it had withstood much in its existence, perhaps as much as he had. Surely to it this present storm was simply one more, and it too would pass and leave this place much the same as it had been before. Legolas wished he could have such unending equanimity, for then his spirit would not be so torn, so agonized. At least he would have the strength to look beyond the turmoil of the present and hope for the future.

Gimli was speaking. With a great measure of will he managed to concentrate on his companion. "It seems that the prince only yesterday learned of Linhir's plight, and by then there was naught he could do. The Easterlings had set the town ablaze and abandoned it, such as was done with Cair Andros. They must have swept north on the roads through Lebennin. Many riders were dispatched from Dol Amroth, riders that never reached the White City. They were hunted and killed."

Legolas gritted his teeth. "Thus explaining the odd silence." He had been right to think their enemy clever and quick, for executing such a difficult feat as to cut off all communication between Gondor's various regions required remarkable planning.

Gimli nodded darkly. "Presumably they released that poor lad on the road, close enough to Minas Tirith so that he would survive only to deliver his message." The Dwarf grunted hotly. "Of all the black things I have seen in this world, I believe this to be the most foul, the most cowardly! Have they no sense of duty, of decorum in war…" The Dwarf trailed off, too furious to finish. It was a pointless question, at any rate, and not one Legolas could even begin to answer.

The Elf remembered the weight in his hand and with sudden insistence his previously forgotten discovery slammed back into his head. He shifted Fethra again to free his arm and handed what he had found amidst the stacks below to his friend.

Gimli regarded the Elf with questioning eyes for a moment before taking the offered item. It was a dusty, old book. Once it had been bound in red leather, but the color had faded with time to a brownish gray. The pages were warped and wrinkled, indicating that at one point in time the volume had been placed somewhere quite damp and forgotten.

The Dwarf's ruddy face crinkled in confusion. He swept a gloved thumb over the cover of the book, wiping away the dirt that had accumulated upon it. Engrained into the leather was gilded lettering. "What is this?" Gimli opened the book and wrinkled his nose at the spray of dust. Upon the pages was great flowing script, beautiful in its curves and lines. The Dwarf shook his head. "I cannot read this."

"Neither can I, at least not to any significant extent. But I do know this word." One slender finger swept over the title of the book. "It is Adûnaic for _palantíri_." Gimli suddenly looked up at him. Legolas went on quickly, sensing his friend's interest and excited by what he had discovered. "I found this book in the great vaults this afternoon. What that soldier said did not sit well with me. The more I considered his words, the greater my unease became. Spies, certainly. Last night's foray more than proved that fact. I think there is more, though, Gimli. Much more."

"You speak in riddles, Elf. Talk plainly of your thoughts!" hissed the Dwarf in frustration.

Legolas' eyes narrowed. "He looked right at me, Gimli. At _me_. Why would he do that, unless he meant to say something that I would understand?"

Gimli shook his head in clear puzzlement. "What would you understand, though?"

Frustrated, the Elf sighed. Herein lied the holes in his logic. He could not, despite all his careful consideration and contemplation, unravel why the poor soldier had focused upon him when delivering his final message. Faramir had been right beside him. Why had the dying soul waited, prolonging his pain and suffering, simply to tell the Elf? It made little sense. "I do not know, my friend, but I believe it has something to do with this." He swept his fingers over the cover of the book and dropped his tone to a hushed whisper. "How else could they see so much?"

For a moment neither spoke. Legolas watched the emotions swirl in Gimli's distant eyes, observing the Dwarf digesting and trying to solve this enigma. It was a complex and tangled mess, a monster of shady fact and uncertain truths, of fear and doubt that the reality was far more than the nightmare they all perceived. Finally, Gimli looked up and held his companion's gaze. A flash of betrayal shone in his dark eyes. "If what you say is true, then… That makes little sense!" He spoke in a rushed whisper. "It was said only two of the _palantíri_ remained after the war, and both are here in Minas Tirith. Both have been sealed, and none save Aragorn can access them!"

Legolas looked down. To say he had not already considered these facts would be a blatant lie. It had occurred to him, and it was not anything he could explain. There were once seven _palantíri_, seven seeing stones gifted to the Númenoreans by Feänor. Elendil had brought the crystalline globes to Middle Earth ages prior. Three had certainly been lost. One had been returned to Aman. Two were present in Minas Tirith: that of Denethor, Faramir's father, which had been entombed with him in the Houses of the Dead, and that which Aragorn kept in his private towers. This last seeing stone had been recovered from Isengard during the War of the Ring.

The fate of only one was a mystery. Rumor spoke of the Dark Lord's acquisition of the _palantír_ of Minas Ithil and his use of it during the War of the Ring to coordinate his forces with those of the demented Saruman the Wise. Presumably it had disappeared during the fall of Barad-dûr, but none had confirmed this fact. The elation of defeating Sauron had overridden any need to pick through the rubble of his empire for lost relics.

The Easterlings had once been an ally of Mordor. It was not completely inconceivable, he supposed, to theorize that they had somehow come into possession of the lost _palantír_. However, even if he was willing to make such a speculative assumption, this hypothesis of his remained somewhat groundless. Nobody save the king could enter either the Houses of the Dead or the private vaults within the Tower of Ecthelion. Both were heavily guarded. It seemed extremely unlikely even the most adept of spies could sneak inside, steal the _palantír_, and slip out again undetected. Supposing the Easterlings already possessed a _palantír_, what could they possibly be observing with it? The bleak darkness within the Houses of the Dead? An empty tower, void of action or sensitive information?

"I know it appears false and frivolous, but I cannot for all the want of my mind abandon what my heart cries. Somehow a _palantír_ is involved in this plot. I am certain of it. That boy meant for us to know this. The Easterlings are far too clever; they would not award us so obvious or easy a hint!" They were quiet a moment, and the words sunk deeply into them both, heightening a storm of ambiguity and trepidation. These thoughts were little more than wild suppositions borne from desperation and exhaustion. Such a realization dampened Legolas' resolve, and he regretted this silly idea. Embarrassed, he afforded Gimli a helpless stare that eventually became a small, sad grin. "You think me mad."

"No more than is your wont," jested Gimli quietly with a small chuckle. Still, there was a certain seriousness lacing his words. Though hidden, it indicated his appreciation for Legolas' thoughts. The prince felt a bit relieved, grateful that his rambling had made some sense to his dear friend. "Shall we tell Aragorn of this?"

Legolas opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by the sound of familiar voices approaching. One was soft, feminine and melodic. Though the tone was quiet, the Elf's keen ears clearly perceived all that was said. A man responded. Faramir and Éowyn.

The Elf turned and watched as husband and wife made their way slowly through the throng of people gathered in the corridor outside the meeting hall. He was leaning upon her, though from his downcast expression he clearly resented his need for assistance. The steward had dressed in a formal tunic and coat, and he looked to have recently bathed. His lean face was a bit drawn and pale, but his eyes lacked no luster. His gait was disturbed by his injury, and he limped quite perceptibly despite all his best efforts to hide his weakness.

Legolas' eyes settled on Éowyn. She was quite beautiful, with thick hair spun of gold and skin fair and pale. Her brow was high and her features fine. She carried herself with all the grace and stature of royalty, and it was well warranted as she was both the sister of Rohan's king and the wife of Gondor's steward. Although she appeared perhaps demure and delicate on first inspection, Legolas knew that behind those deep, blue eyes a sharp wit and an icy strength lay in wait. As a shield maiden of Rohan, Éowyn had learned to fight with both hand and mind, and she was no easy enemy to defeat. Though often aloof and even cold, she hid well the warmth of her love for her husband and his people. The Elf knew little of her relationship with Faramir, save that they had met but a few days after the Battle of Pelennor Fields in the Houses of Healing. They were a private sort, and Legolas knew it was not his place to understand the nature of their marriage save that their devotion to each other ran strong and deep.

They stopped upon reaching the Elf and Dwarf. Gimli shook his head and reprimanded Faramir almost immediately. "You should be resting, Master Ranger."

The man was not amused by Gimli's scolding, but he kept his temper in check. "I am Steward of Gondor, Master Dwarf. Some duties are more important than rest, for better or worse." Gimli grunted, also unappreciative of Faramir's dismissive response. But the steward only looked to Legolas. "We shall begin shortly."

Legolas nodded. Fethra suddenly lifted her small head from the Elf's shoulder. Her chubby fist came to rub her eyes. "Leglass?" she murmured, glancing around. She nuzzled closer to her protector once she realized she was in a strange place and surrounded by strange people. Clinging tighter to him, she burrowed her face into the crook of his neck, hiding beneath his hair.

_You forgetful creature!_ His thoughts blasted him for his foolery. _What are you to do with this child? You cannot take her into the king's assembly!_ He felt like smacking himself; perhaps the physical force of the blow would clear his foolish head and allow some sense to waft through the haze of fatigue and flippant theories. There was no time to seek out a caregiver for Fethra at the moment. The meeting was about to begin.

A look of distress must have passed upon his face, for Éowyn released her husband's arm and stepped closer. Her eyes settled upon the little girl, and then she looked to Legolas. A familiar expression of shock and anger coursed over her face. Legolas had seen such a look long ago, when the two children had arrived in Meduseld bearing news of the Uruk-hai's attack on its neighboring towns. Two years later the ferocity of her anger struck him just as clearly. "Is she the one?" breathed the White Lady of Rohan. Obviously Éowyn had been informed of the details concerning Cair Andros' fall. The Elf imagined that at this juncture such knowledge had become quite commonplace in Gondor.

The Elf nodded sadly. On light footfalls, Éowyn stepped to stand behind him. Legolas glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman smile gently for the small child. Rarely did the White Lady smile so genuinely, but when she did it seemed all the beauty of the earth gathered in her eyes. "Hello, my lady," she said softly. Pale fingers tipped by clear nails pushed a lock of hair behind Fethra's ear. "My name is Éowyn."

One green eye peeked from over the top of Legolas' shoulder. Fethra's hands were balled tightly in the Elf's hair, but she moved her face from behind the blond tresses. Éowyn grinned joyfully. "Ah! There you are! And how pretty you are, as well. How might I address you, my lady?"

"Fethra," she whispered. Her gaze was suspicious.

Éowyn grinned. "Fethra! Would you like to come with me?"

The little girl shook her head firmly and held tighter to Legolas. The Elf sighed gently, trying to dislodge her from her grip upon him. "You must go with Lady Éowyn, little one." Her lower lip started to quiver and her eyes began to glisten with newly formed tears. Legolas felt something inside him begin to ache in unhappy anticipation. Fethra whimpered as he turned and tried to hand her to Éowyn's open arms. "I promise you," he whispered gently, "I will not be long. But I must go for a little while."

"No!" cried Fethra. Legolas grimaced as big tears streaked from the cranky child's eyes. "No! Leglass!" Obviously she was quite tired of being handed off to whomever was available. Legolas felt terrible for such treatment, but he was the Lord of Ithilien and Aragorn's closest friend; he could not abandon his duties to Gondor and to his brother.

Fethra began to bawl quite loudly, throwing a vicious tantrum and struggling to hold to Legolas' hair and clothes. Éowyn took the struggling girl, her own expression annoyed and a bit hurt at the display. The Elf offered the woman an apologetic glance as he finally succeeded in pulling free from Fethra's grasp. Éowyn took her into her arms, but Fethra seemed determined not to make this easy or pleasant. Angered and upset with himself, Legolas took the child's face in his hands and leaned closed to her. "Stop this, Fethra," he ordered softly. His tone was gentle but firm, and it left no room for argument. "I have duties to which I must attend."

"But why, Leglass?" she cried, staring at him with sad, wide eyes. "Don't you want me any more?"

The words hurt, and he was greatly troubled that she could imagine such a thing. Some part of him wondered if she was not manipulating him, and that hurt more. "Of course I do. But I am a prince and lord, Fethra. I need to aid my king." He dipped his face close and leaned his forehead upon hers. Bright blue eyes locked with teary green ones. "I promise you that I will be back as soon as I can be. Go with Lady Éowyn."

The little girl stopped her weeping and sniffled. "Miss you, Leglass," she said quietly, as if in a final attempt to keep him close.

It nearly worked. Guilt and love meshed together in the Elf's heart, and he nearly faltered. He wished that this wretched council did not need to occur, that all of this nightmare would simply disappear and leave them in peace. Nothing was ever so easy. He kissed her cheek. Fethra had calmed considerably and was now settled in Éowyn's embrace, holding to the woman obediently. Legolas offered Éowyn a grateful glance, which she returned with a curt nod. She gave her husband a glance, and then she pivoted and began to walk down the hall, heading back towards the privacy of the Citadel. Though she hid it well, Legolas detected her discomfort in her eyes clearly enough, and the Elf felt terribly ashamed of how Fethra had just acted.

He watched until they were out of sight in the mess of people. Then Gimli grasped his arm, drawing his attention. "Come, Master Elf. It is time."

* * *

The meeting hall was lavish and palatial, symbolizing the mighty stature of the nation. Seated near the base of the White Tower, it was a grand, wide area, filled with many open windows and arched pillars. The vaulted ceiling was high above them and expertly adorned with a beautiful mural of the rising of Númenor from the waves of the tumultuous sea. When Ecthelion I had ordered the tower restored, this work had been painstakingly painted upon the curved surface as an homage to the origins of Gondor. It was quite a sweeping and glorious picture, lavish in color and symbolism. Only the best of Gondor's artists had been permitted to work on the project.

From the tops of the stone walls hung long, flowing tapestries woven of the finest cloth that would neither fade nor tear. Adorning the room as well were the standards of the king, suspended from the ceiling in great black streamers. The floor was smooth and polished, and it glowed brightly as the setting sun shined upon it. In its center was a large red oak table. It was shaped as a ring with no middle to it, leaving a wide open space. Around the circle's rim were many chairs, and directly opposite the king's was a small gap in the ring. This allowed a speaker to enter the middle and talk to all directly. Aragorn had purposefully asked the wood-workers to make it as such so that all could equally speak and listen.

Presently men were taking their places about the grand table. Legolas recognized some as the regional lords or Aragorn's personal advisers. Others he did not know, the governor's of more distant places perhaps or newly appointed. The call had gone out to all of Gondor's townships and provinces to send representatives to this emergency assembly. Only the closest had been able to heed the summons. The men gathered spoke in hushed whispers, but the Elf heard their tense words, their fears, their suspicions. All of Gondor was nearly in a state of panic. Legolas vaguely wondered if Aragorn knew how desperate the situation was becoming.

As he walked around the table, he spotted Imrahil and a young man sitting not far from Aragorn's vacant seat. The Prince of Dol Amroth was a stately man, with gray piercing eyes settled into a finely chiseled face. His cheekbones were highly set and his jaw was strong and vehement. Light hair framed his narrow face. He was a serious man, demanding respect from all he commanded. Legolas and Gimli had spent quite some time in his presence after the Battle of Pelennor Fields, and they both had found him to be quite agreeable. Imrahil claimed to have within him some Elven blood, and though such a thing was difficult to substantiate, Legolas could not help but believe him. He carried himself a bit different from his peers, with a sense of grace and purpose that most men did not even notice. Loyal and powerful, he was a valuable ally to Gondor, one the nation could not afford to lose.

Legolas felt a pang of sympathy shake him as he approached the lord. The young man sitting beside him was clearly another of his sons. He appeared no older than the boy who had died earlier that day, his face broken with sorrow and shame. The beginning of a young beard was clinging to his pale face. Intently he watched his father, searching perhaps for signs of forgiveness, of acceptance. However, Imrahil's face was a picture of controlled anguish, of muted rage and grief.

Legolas stopped at Imrahil's side. The man turned, and his baleful glare vanished. "Prince Legolas," he said softly. He rose stiffly and offered the Elf a short bow. Then he gestured to the young man who had also risen behind him. "This is my youngest son, Amrothos."

The boy bowed lowly, obviously quite nervous at the sight of an Elf. "My Lord," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly and betraying his frail composure.

The Elf prince smiled, hoping to assuage the young man's anxieties. Certainly the boy had suffered enough this day without the added pressure of appearing stoic before a stranger. "I am pleased to meet you, Amrothos."

Imrahil released a slow breath, drawing the Elf's attention. "It is good to see you again, my friend. I only wish the circumstances were better."

Indeed it had been quite some time since they had last met. In fact, the occasion had also marked the last time he had ventured into this great hall. It had been nearly a year earlier, and Aragorn had called a meeting of the Lords of Gondor to discuss matters of the state, including the rebuilding of Ithilien. How very different things had been then! A time of peace, of prosperity, of hope for the bright future… Everything now stood threatened. Everything of which they had so light-heartedly spoken, all their grand plans and aspiations, everything they had dreamed…

Legolas laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "My heart grieves deeply for your loss," he said softly.

Imrahil was not one prone to displays of emotion, but it was clear he appreciated the archer's sentiments. He unfolded his hands and grasped Legolas' arm. The Elf could see the unshed tears in his eyes. "Aye." His voice was choked with coarse sorrow. "It is a terrible thing to lose a son. Alas for Ercirion! He was quite the mischievous one in life. Death is far too constrictive a shroud for such a vibrant spirit."

Legolas squeezed the other's shoulder firmly, showing his support. "His death will not be in vain," said the Elf resolutely.

The Prince of Dol Amroth narrowed his eyes viciously. "No," he hissed, his voice seething and venomous, "it will not." He exuded wrath as clearly as the sun did life or a tree did peace. Legolas tensed as the waves of the man's fury broke against him. The Elf closed his eyes a moment. _Tathar… Ercirion… how many more will die?_

There was a commotion at the great doors, and Legolas turned to look. A page announced in a loud, clear voice, "The King comes!"

The Elf offered Imrahil one last reassuring look before leaving the prince. He sought a spot between Gimli and Faramir, and he sank into the chair. His side immediately began to ache again, and he clenched his teeth in annoyance. Now was certainly not the time for this confounded wound to distract him. Pushing aside the pain, he set the old book he had found upon the floor and then leaned back in his chair. Yet the hurt would not be so easily silenced. Breathing became a trying venture, and his chest throbbed in time with his racing heart. Legolas clenched his jaw, fighting an unusual wave of dizziness. His throat burned and he squeezed shut his eyes. _Not now… please, not now!_ His mind spun and pain seered him. All sense of concentration vanished.

"Elf!" came a harsh whisper from his side. Legolas opened his eyes and gasped. His right hand strayed to his left side, curling protectively about his chest. He turned, startled and winded, to see Gimli watching him with irritated yet concerned eyes. "What ails you?"

_What ails me? I know not!_ Yet he did not voice his fearful frustration. There was no time to assure Gimli he was well. The page shouted again, his voice ringing clearly through the massive hall. "All hail King Elessar!"

The sound of chairs scraping on the floor filled the room, reverberating off of the high walls and ceiling. Everyone in attendance stood respectfully as Aragorn quickly entered through the large doors. Legolas swallowed his discomfort, his eyes tracing his friend's troubled face. Swiftly the man took his seat between Faramir and Éomer. Each representative sat once more. The doors were slammed shut, sealing the room from outside distraction.

There was silence for a few moments as each being considered the dismal situation about which they had all been called together to discuss. Breaths were held. All eyes were upon the king. Finally Aragorn spoke. "I have called you here today in regards to the recent attacks upon our nation." His voice was strong, clear, and focused. Legolas smiled inwardly; he had come so far since his time hiding among the Elves in Rivendell. It was rather amusing to see Elessar the King juxtaposed beside Aragorn the Ranger. "As many of you know, two days ago the outpost of Cair Andros was attacked. The town was razed and its people slaughtered. The forces dispatched to render aid were ambushed and forced to retreat." Aragorn paused a moment. It was clear to all he was struggling to contain his rage. "Last night, as my Queen and I slumbered, our lives were threatened by an assassin." A hushed murmur went around the rounded table. "Today we have also received word that Linhir has been destroyed. There were apparently no survivors. The last of the town's folk died but a few hours ago in the Houses of Healing." The king's eyes sought Imrahil's. Legolas saw the grief pass through Aragorn's gaze. "And during his journey to Minas Tirith, Prince Imrahil's party was brutally attacked. Many lives were lost."

Obviously not all present knew of the most recent developments. Éomer glanced about the table, his young, handsome face perturbed and sullen. Many mirrored his motion, darting glances at Imrahil and noticeable absence of his middle child. Aragorn allowed these words to sink their venomous and terrible fangs into the council before continuing. "These are not isolated incidents. Each has been marked by the golden serpent. For whatever cause, whatever purpose, the Haradrim threaten the people of Gondor once more. This cannot be allowed to continue. Far too many lives have been lost to their blood lust. We must decide how to act." Aragorn glanced around at his advisers, lords, and friends. They were silent, obviously uncertain and suspicious of both the situation and subject. "Please, speak freely. There is no time for formality, and I value any opinion."

The quiet about the table lasted only a moment longer. Glances were shared. Tensions festered. Finally, Golasgil of Anfalas asked, "There is no doubt the Haradrim are behind these attacks?"

Aragorn sadly shook his head. "None," he declared. Legolas watched the muscles of his face flex and tense as he stifled his anger. "They have made no effort to hide their intentions. At each instance the serpent in his bloody sea was left for those present to find. There is no doubt."

"Well, then, there is an obvious answer," spoke Valinhern of Lossarnach. Black eyes darted about those present, seeking agreement. "We must declare war." A few heads bobbed in agreement, and there was a general murmur of consent.

Faramir shook his head. "Do not be so hasty to commit us to combat, Lord Valinhern," warned the steward. His gray eyes narrowed and his face grew taut with anger and warning. "We know little of their intentions and even less of their strengths."

"It would require no great force to overcome Cair Andros," mused Duinhir, lord of Morthond. "It was never sufficiently refortified after the War of the Ring. Its population was mostly tradesmen and merchants. Given even a small host of skilled warriors, it would have fallen quite easily." Legolas tightened his hand into a fist as the images of the destroyed town tormented him again. The burnt bodies. The destroyed buildings. The stench of blood and death. Rage was cunning, it seemed, and once again the need for revenge became strong within him, shaking and pummeling the foundation of his peace. Such a powerful weapon, it made weak his logic and restraint, and he was almost willing to oblige it. The call for war was entirely too alluring. "Surely we have learned from past torments that the Easterlings are vile and skilled in brutality."

Faramir spoke quickly, "You see but one angle, sir. A closer inspection of the man from Linhir who passed away this morning revealed he had been beaten and held captive for days. Consider the timing! At least two forces are at work here, most likely operating in cohort with each other. One company must have occupied Linhir whilst the other attacked Cair Andros."

"Thus two forces, and not one," surmised one of Aragorn's advisers. The man was called Irehadde, and Legolas knew little of him save that he cared not for Faramir. Irehadde was a veteran soldier for the northern Dúnedain. He had fought valiantly at Pelennor Fields, and proudly wore a great scar upon his face from an Orc axe as a symbol of his loyalty to Aragorn. Since Aragorn's crowning, many of the Dúnedain had joined their leader in Gondor as advisers or soldiers. Often the views of these men conflicted with those of the old governing body in Minas Tirith. A great deal of friction existed between the White and Royal Guards and the Dúnedain, and it was a complicated mess into which Legolas wished not to involve himself. "It makes little difference if there are dozens of separate units. We must attack, and we must do so ruthlessly!"

Faramir bristled. Legolas felt him tense and watched the fury pass over his friend's normally passive face from the corner of his eye. Irehadde could be simply incorrigibly arrogant at times, and his answer to any problem was swift violence. The Elf did not envy Faramir's position. The Dúnadan supposed he held the king's ear above any other with no matter to the nature of the topic. He was a difficult person to satisfy and he was harsh when challenged. This was not the place for a rancorous debate, and despite his obvious ire, Faramir knew that. After a short breath, his face relaxed and he looked away, disgusted. Legolas breathed a silent sigh of relief. Faramir had the patience of an Elf at times.

Éomer began to speak, and the Elven lord turned his attention upon the young King of Rohan. "We can assume nothing. What of their intentions? What if provoking a war is what they want? Perhaps they mean to lure us with some sort of ruse that will leave us unable to defeat them…"

"That is your fear speaking, King Éomer, and I mean no disrespect with those words," answered Irehadde. Valinhern nodded emphatically. "Do you not see through their guise? They terrorize our lands and people! They believe with fear they can control us. These attacks are meant to instill doubt and little more. They seek to intimidate us into inaction! Does that not speak to their inferior size, to their inferior power? They avoid open war because they know they will not win!"

As much as Legolas did not care for Irehadde's attitude, he could not deny that the man made some sense. He had not really considered such logic previously. Perhaps the Easterlings truly did mean to simply frighten Gondor. Fear was a powerful tool. It bred unease and hesitation, and both were dangerous plights to a nation at war. They were clever, after all, and surely their numbers could not be so great given their recent losses during the War of the Ring. If they meant to confuse Gondor into a frightened stasis, it might afford them the time they needed to build forces sufficient enough to conquer the nation of men.

But even as he mulled over these thoughts, Legolas was forced immediately to cast them aside. For some inexplicable reason, the rationale was too simple, the answers coming far too easily. He remembered the terrible snake branded into the boy's chest and the blood that had collected about the mark. Those eyes, so tormented and terrorized, holding his, trying to warn him…

A throb of angry shouting drew him back to the argument. Éomer bellowed, "This is folly! Do you not understand? These men have murdered and maimed to infuriate us into pursuing war! If we attack them we will fall for their deception!" His eyes flashed as he glanced around the table. "They took great pains to hide Linhir's destruction from the eyes and ears of Dol Amroth's scouts. Why do such a thing? Why take such an extreme risk?"

It was not a question any could answer with finality, but Irehadde tried to do so at any rate. "To divert our concerns. While we ponder clues that lead to no useful deduction, they plan and build. They prepare for their war upon us. And when we fall, we will have naught to blame but our own misgivings and paranoid thoughts. Our minds are our worst enemies." The Dúnadan glanced around the table suspiciously. His eyes fell to Legolas and narrowed. The Elf was surprised at the action, alarm and then ire rattling him. Surely the man did not think…

Aragorn did not miss the action and settled a rancorous glare upon Irehadde. "Peace, my Lord. Each at this table has proven himself most worthy of trust."

"My King," said Faramir, turning hard eyes upon his liege and companion, "we cannot simply commit ourselves to war. It is clear from this debate alone that far too much remains hidden from us. We must search for answers, lest we make rash and uninformed judgements that we will later regret." Legolas lowered his eyes, his lips twisting into a small grin.

Irehadde did not take this insult silently. "Search for answers? And do what with them, Steward? Your silly hunt for the truth will end with us exactly where we started, only at a greater disadvantage!"

"And what will the people think if we do nothing in response to these attacks?" another man demanded.

Aragorn raised his hand to still the fight that was brewing. The hall was silent a moment, the echo of angry voices fading. The tension grew hotter and tighter, frustration creating a torturous tempest of doubt and anger. "We can ill afford to quarrel amongst ourselves," Gimli whispered. Legolas turned to look at him, but the Dwarf's eyes seemed to be tiny black beads set into a mess of red hair and skin. He looked at the grain of the polished oak, apparently intently interested in its swirling patterns. The Elf felt his spirits tumble at the sight of his friend's dark mood.

Eventually Imrahil spoke. The words came with great effort, his gaze slowly centering upon his king. "If not war," said the Prince of Dol Amroth, "then what? Surely you will not allow these… butcherers to escape the wrath of punishment, my King."

Sympathy glowed in Aragorn's eyes, but the sentiment did not reach his voice. "We will permit them no such luxury, Prince Imrahil. I must agree with the Steward; declaring war on an enemy of which we know little is foolhardy at best and disastrous at worst. We must learn more of _what_ they intend. I believe the best course of action may be to fortify what we can and minimalize the loss of life."

"And then, my Lord?" questioned Valinhern. It was evident from the tone of his voice that he cared little for this idea.

Aragorn released a slow breath. "We wait."

"With all due respect, sire, I must object," countered Irehadde. "If we postpone offensive action now, we may lose the opportunity and forfeit any advantage we have."

"Objection noted. I have made my decision."

Silence. Whether or not they ageed with the king's verdict, each was required to accept it by law and oath of loyalty. Grudging were the eyes of a few, but most seemed to recognize Aragorn's plan for its merits. "I will not have towns ravaged, regardless of the enemy's intent. No more will our people suffer. We must reinforce our defenses. Send word to the remote villages that their inhabitants should flee to capital cities. It is obvious the Easterlings seek to make easy targets of weak posts. Reinforce what we can, and abandon and destroy what we cannot."

The response to Aragorn's orders came in the form of a series of grunts and nods. Then the king turned to Faramir. "What of Ithilien? Should it be attacked, can it possibly withstand it?"

The steward looked doubtful for a moment, and Legolas understood his concern. Ithilien was a special case. No other portion of Gondor's territory had for so long been choked by the black forces of Mordor. No other realm had been so damaged, so ruined, so utterly destroyed. Rebuilding the once glorious land had been a mighty task, and it would take years upon years to see the cities and forests restored. It was greatly vulnerable, with only cracked ramparts guarding Emyn Arnen and few men to guard them at that. Supplies were few aside from what was spent on construction. It would hardly withstand an assault, much less a siege.

"I do not know, my Lord," finally answered Faramir. A pained look of shame and defeat briefly claimed his face, and he glanced to Legolas. "We would not go easily, given the chance to defend our keep." He released a short breath and grimaced with the action. "However, to say we have the resources to repel an onslaught would be little more than a lie."

Aragorn was not pleased with the assessment, but he cast aside his disappointment. "Then we have little choice. Pull everyone back. We can use your men to reinforce Minas Tirith." Faramir's expression quickly became downcast. Though Aragorn's orders were not meant to insult or degrade him in the slightest, Legolas could sympathize with his damaged pride. For a lord to abandon his keep was unbecoming and embarrassing, no matter the circumstances surrounding the retreat. But the steward said nothing, merely nodding and leaning tiredly back into his chair.

"What of our own forces, sir?" asked Duinhir. Bright eyes watched the king intently, waiting for some sort of reassurance that Aragorn retained command over this terrible situation.

Aragorn sighed. The sound of his tired, languid breath was all but imperctible to the men, but the Elf heard it clearly enough. "We must prepare for war," admitted the king. Irehadde smiled haughtily. "Send all men who can be spared to Minas Tirith. I have already requested the aid of the Elves of Ithilien, and they are riding to the White City as we speak."

Gimli grunted. "You have the aid of the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves as well, son of Arathorn. Earlier I sent word to them, and they will stand ready."

"And Rohan is, of course, at Gondor's side in peace and war, my Lord," added Éomer adamantly. His jaw was firmly set and his eyes were bright. "You need only ask it of me, and the Riders of the Mark will be at your disposal."

To Éomer and Gimli, Aragorn offered a smile of gratitude. Legolas felt assured knowing that the king's friends were readily offering their support and that that support gave Aragorn comfort. No matter the danger, no matter the anguish or fear, nothing could cut their bond of brotherhood.

The king's eyes gained a hard glint. "We shall send word west to the Shire, as well. I am quite certain the Hobbits would be willing to lend us our aid. Peregrin Took is Knight to this realm; he will not easily disregard such a vow."

Irehadde scowled. "Halflings, sir? What can such small creatures do against such a malicious and brutal threat?" he asked incredulously.

Aragorn afforded him a small smile, fond remembrance of times spent with the small folk in the Fellowship glazing his gray eyes. Legolas knew well the source of Aragorn's small joy. Hobbits truly were amazing creatures. In their small hamlet, much of the world rushed by in its violent and turbulent race without their knowing. Ignorance was bliss to them, but even so they bred hearts great and full and minds apt to learn. The Elf had never truly encountered a Hobbit before his days as one of the Nine Walkers; though Bilbo Baggins had years before come to his father's court in Mirkwood on a perilous journey of his own, Legolas had never had an occasion to meet with him. Here again was another aspect of Middle Earth that so bound his spirit to it: he had learned so much about honor, valor, and strength from those four little creatures that he dared not ever doubt the splendor of life's diversities. Samwise Gamgee in particular had regarded him with such innocent awe that he had often wondered how any creature could possibly think so highly of another. To them, the world was good, right, and teeming with hope. Even at the coldest peeks of Caradhras or in the darkest depths of Moria, they never allowed despair to rule their souls. Hobbits were made of greater stuff than they seemed, and Legolas cherished the time he had spent in their company. Their laughter, their silly jokes and banter, their adoration and fascination with him and all things Elvish, had enriched his life.

Aragorn had obviously been thinking the same. To Irehadde, he said, "You would be surprised, my friend, if you knew of the things a Hobbit can do."

"And if the Easterlings should attack again, my Lord?" Valinhern asked. If the man made any attempt to hide the consternation in his voice, it was not noticeable. "We cannot possibly protect our nation on all fronts, and the people have spread wide under the promise of security. Gondor has grown large and wealthy, King Elessar, and we have not the resources to defend every town!"

Duinhir shook his head. A spectre of panic shone in his eyes. "What should we do, Lord, if they strike before we are ready? They have moved so quickly and so unexpectedly in their attacks!"

If Aragorn had an answer to such difficult questions, he did not have time to voice it for outside there came a great ruckus. In the adjacent hall there was a stampede of running feet and a loud boom of voices. The doors to the meeting hall suddenly flung open. All eyes turned to the portal.

Beregond was winded and ashen-faced. He wasted no time with a salute, his frantic, wide eyes meeting Aragorn's. "The Easterlings march on Minas Tirith!" he cried.

For an eternity, it seemed, no one spoke. The awful proclaimation echoed loudly, ringing in their ears and pounding in their hearts. Not a breath could be heard in the vacuous silence. Could this be true? Was waking nightmare finally seizing reality and morphing it into the terrible future all had feared?

Then time broke its stasis and all jerked rapidly into panicked motion. "Reinforce the gates!" exclaimed Aragorn as he rose from his chair. All present did the same, fear and barely contained horror transforming fluid movement into choppy, desperate action. Wood smacked marble as chairs tipped and crashed to the floor. "Get archers on the walls!"

Legolas stood quickly, but searing pain ripped through his side. He cried out and braced his left hand on the table, his right wrapped around his chest. Abruptly the world shifted, and he could hardly find breath. Gasping, he struggled to rise above the agony that had unexplainably claimed him. His pulse boomed in his head, and all he could hear was the deafening rush of blood between his ears. He felt arms grab him. "Go," he moaned, shaking off their holds. "I am fine! Go on without me!"

The world was moving around him, but it all seemed terribly lethargic. Gimli released the Elf, offering him one more worried look before turning and following Faramir. Vaguely Legolas could hear shouting, but his mind was slowed and it sounded extremely distant and unimportant. In a matter of moments he was alone.

It took much longer for the Elf to regain himself. The crippling pain was slow to recede, and he leaned into the table, his body trembling violently as he struggled to ride out the waves of agony. Although it had started in his chest, his entire form felt bent and mangled, and each muscle, each bit of flesh, throbbed and pounded in hurt. His vision blurred. There was nothing but this consuming pain. There was no sound reaching his ears, no cool table beneath his fingertips, nothing to see or taste or smell. There was no air to breathe. Nothing.

Still, as mysteriously as this attack had come, it passed, and Legolas gasped. He sagged against the table as the agony released him from its choking, squeezing grasp. His wheezing breath was coupled with weak sobs, and he realized belatedly that hot tears had broken free from his eyes. Shuddering, he collapsed to the ground. His stomach heaved, bile burning the back of his throat, and he thought for a moment he might be sick. It took all his will not to gag. He knelt a few moments, doubled over, sobbing softly as he fought to regain control over his hurting body. Finally, his composure defeated his nausea, and he managed to right himself.

The Elf leaned back against his chair and drew his knees tightly against his chest, breathing heavily. A cold sweat had bathed him, and he quivered violently. Beating viciously in his chest, his heart refused to slow its frenzied pace. His terrified mind raced and churned, but forming coherent thought was extremely difficult. Breathing deeply was all he could do to regain his lost poise. In and out. The cool air felt wonderful, and for a while he concentrated on that to calm himself. _In._ He felt his aching chest rise and push against his thighs. _Out._ He slumped slowly, swallowing uncomfortably. His mouth was dry as though it was full of sand, and his tongue was aching. It was such a foreign sensation. Never before had he felt so weak, so lost, so… ill.

"By Elbereth, what is wrong with me?"

He buried his face into his hands. His head was hammering against his palms, and his gritted his teeth. Tears still stung his eyes, but he blinked them away, disgusted. What was happening to him? Could this attack simply be the product of fatigue, of endless nights spent in restless thought? It was certainly plausible. If only he had afforded himself the time to better heal his body, he would not be so vulnerable.

Still, some part of him was beginning to wonder if any of this was that simple.

Legolas sat still for what seemed to be a long time, distraughtly trying to summon within him some semblance of peace. His composure was fleeting, and he chased it as it dangled before his riled and frightened mind. A cool wind raced through the vacant meeting hall, carrying with it sounds of shouting, of preparations for battle. It reached his ears and slowly came to his lethargic attention. He lifted his head. Even though the speed and ferocity with which this attack had felled him greatly disturbed him, he could not afford to ponder it now.

The Elf leaned forward and struggled to get his feet under him. He rose, shaking, and was rewarded with a stab of pain to his injured side and shoulder. For a moment he feared his wobbling knees might buckle and return him to the hard floor. But he remained standing. Staggering, he quickly went to the open windows and looked outside.

There, approaching from the south, was a great army. Legolas' breath hitched in his throat. It was massive, stretching over the fields for leagues. A great host of men it was, and his frantic eyes traced the lines of soldiers. Thousands. No. Tens of thousands.

Bloody light spilled over the fields, and everything was washed in red and shadow. Banners flew on the wind. Gold and crimsom. _They have come._

The Elf's eyes narrowed and he finally snatched his elusive composure. The stoic, placid mask claimed his face as he wiped away his now cold tears. Then he drew a deep breath and turned. His lithe body moved like the wind now, all indication of its previous unrest fading in that one cleansing moment. Elegant and renewed with anger and purpose, he charged from the empty meeting hall. Now they would find answers. Now they would exact their revenge.

_It is time._


	10. A Modest Proposal

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER TEN: A MODEST PROPOSAL**

Through Minas Tirith Legolas raced. "Stay inside your homes!" he shouted to a few stragglers still roaming the darkened roads. The people shot him an alarmed glance before rushing to their houses, leaving the streets vacant and overrun with shadows. A sudden wind moaned and rattled as it struck the buildings, whispering to the Elf an intangible fear. His gooseflesh prickled as he sprinted. Twilight was upon them, the sky a gray, swirling void overhead. During his descent from the Tower, the sun had set, leaving a cold night to descend upon the city. _Darkness spreads over Minas Tirith,_ he thought, watching as the cold breeze pinched out lantern lights._Evil approaches!_

At the gates soldiers bustled. They were scrambling into position. Legolas knew thousands of troops across the vast city were readying themselves with a barely controlled sense of panic fueling their feet in flight and their hearts in pounding. Archers were lining the walls, holding their bows ready, though the Elf noticed the fear dancing in their eyes. The massive doors were slowly being shut, and shouting filled the air. Once the gate was closed and secured, none would pass into the inner city. Rows upon rows of troops stationed themselves behind the gates. Should any force breach the gate, these men would lay down their lives to slow the approach to the Citadel.

"Where is the King?" Legolas called to the Captain of the Fourth Gate.

The Elf slowed to a stop as the man gave a curt reply. "He has gone to the Gateway, my lord!"

Legolas ground his teeth together in worry and irritation. He did not thank the man or waste a moment more standing still, taking off in a full sprint through the slowly closing doors and flying down the winding streets. His mind was elsewhere, charged with fear and apprehension. Aragorn should not be at the Gateway, for it was far too close to the enemy and thus ultimately too dangerous. Though the prince considered his dearest friend an able warrior, he was far too important to the survival of Gondor to so recklessly place himself in peril. Aragorn had an uncanny ability to surmount the most unbelievably dismal of odds. More than once in their long friendship had Legolas witnessed his friend evade a certain demise, escaping the unescapable as if courting death were an easy, simple matter. Defying fate as he had in Moria, at Helm's Deep, and during Pelennor Fields, seemed to be a natural gift. Even though Aragorn carried with him all the advantages good fortune ensured, one day his luck would abandon him. Legolas could not bear the thought of his friend being struck down by a wayward arrow or unfortunate turn of combat. Destiny often forsook those too comfortable in their stations.

But there was no more time to ponder the merits of Aragorn's seemingly indestructible and desirable providence. His swift feet had carried him to the Gateway. Hundreds of soldiers stood in the wide street, bearing bows and arrows, swords and shields. They were silent, still, and the Elf could sense their trepidation as whispered orders ebbed and flowed along the waves of men. They parted for him, seeing his advance and shooting hopeful looks in his direction. Legolas felt great unease as he caught their sidelong glances. These soldiers were imploring him to do something to rectify this situation, to prevent war or somehow stop the Easterlings from besieging the Gateway. His heart ached; if only it were so simple! Men still, even in this Fourth Age, regarded Elves as mystical beings capable of great feats of magic. Legolas knew better. Whatever was in motion now was beyond his will to change.

He reached a cluster of men near the foot of the massive gate tower. Faramir turned at his approach. The run had taken more of Legolas' endurance than he had originally anticipated, and he hunched over a bit, struggling to catch his rushing breath. The steward did not miss the Elf's weakness, and now his gaze was hard upon his friend, analyzing the archer's uncharacteristically bent and pained figure. Legolas' face was still quite pale, and he felt a bit shakey. He imagined he looked rather unkempt, and for an Elf of his stature that was most unsual and unbecoming. Annoyed with himself, he straightened his back and leveled his shoulders. An unspoken question lingered on Faramir's thin lips. Gray eyes glowed in stern disquiet, but Legolas shook his head to brush aside the steward's worries. Concern over his health was better placed at another time. There was far too much at stake to allow such matters to cloud their minds.

"The night is too dark," said Éomer softly. The young king of Rohan's face was tense, and his voice dripped in anger. "There is neither moon nor stars. Our archers will be greatly hindered without light by which to take aim."

"As will theirs," returned Faramir softly. "At least we hold high ground. The Gateway will afford us a great advantage." Legolas observed his friend shift his weight from foot to foot. It was quite obvious that Faramir was also hampered by his wound, for he could not hold a steady posture. The Elf narrowed his eyes. The steward could not be allowed to join the archers upon the wall. He certainly could not maintain an archer's poise given his sore shoulder, and if he faltered it would be disasterous. "Our archers will thin their host."

"Will the wall hold them?" Éomer asked, his hazel eyes glinting as he glanced about the circle of lords and commanders.

Gimli gripped the shaft of his axe so tightly that the leather of his gloves crackled and creaked with the strain. "If they intend to besiege us, all they need to do is prepare the proper equipment and even the greatest of walls will eventually buckle."

"Nonsense!" barked Irehadde. The Dúnadan's glare was leveled upon the Dwarf, vicious and threatening. Clearly he considered even the slightest hint at Gondor's fallibility quite an insult. He commanded a fair portion of the standing army, so his faith in his defenses was not surprising. "This wall has never fallen. No enemy has ever breached the Gateway!"

A low, disgusted growl rumbled quietly from Gimli, and Legolas nearly smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. "We must better determine the strength of their forces," Aragorn declared firmly. "Ignorance will best us this eve if we are not careful." The king turned abruptly and strided quickly to the darkened stairs that climbed the great stone wall. He called up to the top of the ramparts, "Bear they tools to besiege the gates?"

Silence prevailed for a moment, leaving those below motionless with tense anxiety. Eventually a baritone yell offered a rather noncommittal and apologetic answer. "We cannot tell, my Lord!" Aragorn's lean face tightened in annoyance. "It is far too dark. They carry not even torches to light their paths!"

Before the man even finished his report Aragorn was bounding up the steps. A chorus of respectful reprimands and pleas rang from the group of men, but the king was ignoring their requests for him to stay safely hidden. Legolas was quick to act, stepping through the crowd of soldiers and lords and following Aragorn up the stairs, his slender body stepping lightly and rapidly.

At the top a wide, wooden platform had been built into the wall. It stretched along the parapet's massive length, providing a protected place for men to crouch while defending the Gateway. Presently lines upon lines of archers were pressed flush to the rise of the wall, kneeling to hide themselves from the scouting eyes of the enemy. Legolas ducked and gracefully followed Aragorn. The two friends pushed their way to the wall and then leaned against it.

Aragorn's breath was a puff of vapor before thin lips. "What can you see?" asked the king in Elvish.

Legolas traded his bow to his left hand and inched closer to the wall. Where the eyes of mortals would fail, his would not. He turned a bit and looked out into the field.

The soldier had been true to his word. Before Minas Tirith was a great expanse of black. Though the city itself shed a bit of light, the moon and stars were veiled overhead by wispy clouds of midnight and navy blue. One would have naturally expected to see bobbing torches litter the field like stars twinkling upon a sea, but there was nothing of the sort. The veil of dark and deep shadow did much to obscure the senses of men. But Legolas saw many lines of restless and shifting forms. Waves upon waves of armored infantry stretched into the distance. They were still some distance from the Gateway itself. The Elf narrowed his eyes. The army was not moving. "They have stopped," he whispered to Aragorn, sweeping his vigilant gaze across the scene. "They wait in the fields, perhaps half a league south of the Gateway." Great dark blobs stood tall in the rear, and the prince watched them carefully. At first their nature eluded his meticulous eyes, for they were very still. It seemed possible that they were some type of structures constructed for defeating the wall, but it made little sense to keep such vital equipment so distant from the front lines. One moved, its great hulking mass tipping a bit, and a long, narrow limb lifted from the ground. There was a distant bleet. Surprise rattled through Legolas. "These are not Easterlings," breathed the Elf.

At first Aragorn did not answer. Then the king shifted, rolling a bit and leaning into Legolas. Together they peered over the wall. "Are you certain?" Aragorn demanded, his rough tone betraying his shock and doubt.

Legolas swept his eyes to the front of the immobile legion. Though the light was faint, he could still identify the red flags whipping about in the wind. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. "Quite," he answered. "Those standards… the snake upon them is inverted. And those large animals in the distance are Mûmakil. Easterlings use no such beasts." It was one of the few facts of which they were sure, as they had been able to confirm it through observation in battle and study of the creatures. The men of South Harad were nomads of sorts, and the great, hulking creatures served as their transportation. Something about the drier climes of the southern locale benefited the oliphaunts, and rarely did they leave the agreeable conditions of their habitats. Only one group of men had learned to tame the vicious, colossal animals.

Aragorn released a slow breath. "Southrons."

"Aye." The two friends held each other's eyes, but there was no reassurance to be had.

The mystery grew deeper, the knotted mess of truth and doubt tighter and more difficult to unravel. The puzzle was tricky and ambiguous. It seemed a sticky bog of fear and violence, and with each moment, with each confusing twist, they only sank deeper into the mire.

Before they had a second to even begin to understand the implications, motion upon the fields drew Legolas' alert attention. The Elf ripped around, watching intently as a group of figures upon horses broke from the front of the unmoving army. Long streamers of red and gold billowed in the wind as they neared the Gateway. The thunder of hoofbeats echoed against the wall. "A company approaches," hissed the Elf.

A few minutes passed in silence. Legolas traced their movements in the night. He could not discern their intentions. He counted roughly ten men in the party, and it appeared to him to be some sort of retinue. But he could detect no lord upon a horse, since the men rode in no obvious formation. He could not imagine an escort leaving their charge so vulnerable. Aragorn's eyes were following Legolas' gaze, but in the darkness one form blended into the next. The king tarried in word and act, waiting for his Elven comrade to deliver some hint as to the appropriate response.

Eventually the noise of their advance alerted the archers upon the wall. "Take aim!" hollered one of the company commanders, and the swish of arrows being pulled free from quivers and fixed to bowstrings resounded.

Legolas squinted. He felt Aragorn tense beside him, and the king's patience was obviously near depletion. The Elf strained his senses, desperately trying to determine whether the rapidly approaching riders meant harm. The heads of the horses were now visible, jets of vapor shooting from their muzzles. The rider's faces were covered in dark wraps of some sort. The Elf's eyes fell to their hips. They bore no swords. Neither did they carry arrows, bows, or lances. "They are unarmed," Legolas said.

That was all Aragorn needed in order to make his decision. "Hold your fire!"

A hushed mutter of shock rolled up and down the wall. The archers glanced amongst themselves, hesitation and fear dancing in their eyes. Clearly they did not understand their lord's reasons, but they lowered their weapons all the same.

Silence reigned over the wall's occupants, and each man held his breath. Aragorn pressed his back to the wall, huddled close to Legolas. The Elf could feel the man's heart thunder. "What say you, my friend?" Aragorn's trepidation made the normally melodic sound of Sindarin sound rushed and throaty. Imploring eyes fell to the prince's still form. "What is their intent?"

"They slow outside the wall." Legolas leaned back, turning to meet Aragorn's incredulous gaze. "I think they mean to speak with us."

Aragorn's face crumpled in confusion and dismay. Yet, as Legolas predicted, there came a loud shout from the ground below. "Men of Gondor!" The words rang through the still air, and not a soul shifted or breathed upon the ramparts. The deep baritone voice continued. "We ride forth bearing neither arms nor malice! We entreat your peace. Our lord seeks an audience with the king and nothing more!"

Could it be possible? The Elf and man held still, wondering at the echoes of the man's voice. Legolas grasped tighter the grip of his bow and looked to Aragorn. Suspicion filled his eyes. "Perhaps we ought not trust this," he whispered to his comrade. "They are clever, Aragorn, and the most cunning of lies are those surrounded with hope and good intentions."

The man called again, "We seek not to attack this city but join with it in a common defense! Please, we must see the king!"

The decision was one of unbelievable import. What they chose here, in this pivotal moment, would shape the course of the future. Not for the first time since this nightmare had begun did Legolas wish himself an Elf of foresight. It was so powerful and mighty a gift. How could they so blindly lay the foundations of their own fate? To trust or not, to believe or not… To live. Could they afford to have faith in those seemingly ludicrous and unfounded statements of truce?

On the other hand, could they afford not to?

Legolas did not envy Aragorn this decision. In his own mind the options clattered and warred with one another, and emotion and exhaustion made a mess of his logic. Here again he faulted himself; he had not the mettle of a king or a commander. The weakness of his will allowed this battle of doubt and dismay to wreak havoc, and he could not see clearly the best course of action. That foreboding crawled over him, aching in his wounded side, sickening his already riled stomach, pounding in his throbbing head. So close was the disquiet to his heart that it seemed to have become part of his very spirit. Never did it leave him. Never did it quiet its shrill, plaintive cries. _Nothing is as it seems. Nothing!_

But he was so muddled with fatigue and rampant worry that even he could not believe such placating nonsense. He was growing so frustrated with these incessant sinister premonitions that he could no longer put much stock in them. Perhaps they were just the product of his weak disposition and unease as a leader. Perhaps they were simply borne of many nights spent awake and wondering. In any case, he was hardly equipped to make such a tremendous choice, and he was infinitely glad at that moment that he could defer to Aragorn's judgement.

The distant glaze that had come over Aragorn's eyes faded quickly. He grasped Legolas' knee firmly before turning and stealthily making his way back towards the stairs. The Elf gritted his teeth, unsure of how he felt about this. He grabbed the arm of the commander beside him and pulled the man over and up a bit, so they could both see clearly over the top of the parapet. "Do you see that dark line in the southern plains?" He gestured to the edge of the army, which to the man he was certain appeared little more than a ridge between two shades of black. The frazzled archer swallowed uncomfortably and nodded mutely. "Have your men watch it. Should there be movement, take aim and sound the alarm."

"Yes, sir!" answered the commander, and a whispered relay of the order went down the lines of archers. It was not much in the way of defense, but it was all they could do. It would take a few minutes to open the massive Gateway, and they could take no chances. If the army started to move towards the city as the doors parted, they would at least be ready.

Then the Elf smoothly vaulted down the stairs. He heard arguing below him. Already the gate guards were moving towards the massive cranks to open the doors. Legolas leapt gracefully to the ground, growing impatient with the number of steps between himself and the huddle of men. He landed soundlessly.

"This is folly, my Lord!" gasped Irehadde. Wild eyes flashed in the night, burning in fear and hope that he might somehow change his king's mind. "We cannot invite them into our city!"

Aragorn breathed a slow sigh, glancing around at his companions. "These men appear to owe nationality to South Harad," he explained, sharing a brief look with Legolas. Éomer glanced at Imrahil in surprise. Gimli was not at all eased by the announcement. "They offer words of peace, and I cannot in good conscience disregard that. There are different factions of Haradrim. Long have we known that."

"You suggest that this force is not the one responsible for Cair Andros and Linhir?" asked Éomer. "Is such an assumption wise?"

Aragorn did not answer, but the torn look shining in his eyes was response enough. Imrahil lowered his gaze. His gray eyes were narrowed threateningly as he distantly looked to the ground. "And so the plot thickens," he muttered darkly.

They were silent for a moment. Gimli grunted. "We follow your lead, Aragorn." The Dwarf's words were heartening, even if his tone and his dark, tense scowl were not. Éomer nodded firmly, his jaw set, and the young king of Rohan looked about their group for further confirmation of the sentiment. Faramir's face was vehement and strong despite its tired pallor. Imrahil lifted his gaze. His hand closed about the hilt of his sword and he curtly bobbed his head. His dislike for the idea of fraternizing with these men was clear, but he would not forsake his king despite his disapproval. Even Irehadde, whose face was baleful and vengeful with the thought of allowing the enemy to so easily enter Minas Tirith, offered his king a resolute look. All would band together behind their liege.

Aragorn clasped Gimli gratefully on the shoulder, and Dwarf locked his own hand about the man's forearm momentarily. They separated, and Irehadde called loudly, "Open the Gateway!"

The echo of the order slammed into Legolas. The Elf stiffened, holding his bow to his chest. Skillfull fingers lightly traced the length of the string, testing it subconsciously for weaknesses. His eyes centered upon the gates as they slowly began to open. A great roaring shook the buildings as the massively stone doors were pulled apart. The sound of men gasping as they handled the big cranks was barely audible. They moved so slowly, so the aching moments passed with excruciating lethargy. Did time not realize the fear and anxiety preventing their breaths, the agony of worry dizzying their minds, the strain of hope beating in their chests?

The Gateway finally rumbled open. On its other side the company of Haradrim waited patiently. Guards immediately stretched across the entrance, barring them from going further. There were ten mounted men, each bearing a dark-colored wrap of cloth about their faces. Only their eyes were visible. "I must ask that you leave any weapons you carry here," spoke the leader of Gondor's gate regiment, "or else I shall permit you no further passage."

One of the men dismounted his black steed. When his feet struck the ground, they did so heavily, and plumes of dust fell from his abundant clothing. "We are not armed," he said. Legolas recognized the voice from earlier. This was the man who had announced their coming. Dirty fingers undid the protective cloth from his head, and let the swatches fall to blend with the rippling cloth of his cloak. A simple face was revealed. It was of a brown hue, through whether form natural tone or dirt Legolas could not tell. Full lips were framed by a bushy beard. His eyes were dark and piercing. He bore an expression that rarely seemed lighted by mirth or joy. "I am Ulpheth, Captain of the Emperor's Guard. His Excellency requests an audience with the King of Gondor."

_The Emperor…_ A hushed murmur of surprise went through the troops stationed at the gate. The Elf felt his pulse quicken. Gimli glanced up at him, but Legolas' attention was centered upon a dark rider seated high upon a tall, brown horse. The figure's face was hidden in shadows, but Legolas felt a strange sense of power, of confidence. So palpable was this aura that the Elf nearly wavered.

Aragorn stepped free from the crowd of his officers and advisers. "I am King Elessar," he spoke simply. His voice lacked any sort of amity and wrath, the tone calm and void of emotion. "What would you have of me?"

The shrouded figure languidly dismounted his horse and began to approach, carefully unwrapping the cloth from his face. His stride was long and powerful, purposeful without being rushed. He stepped into the yellow torchlight. He was a tall man, his body lithe and well-muscled, and he carried himself with careful poise. Each motion was stylishly and carefully executed with apparently the greatest of ease. He wore a stately tunic of black and gold that glittered as he moved. A red cloak billowed like a trail of crimson behind him. Long dark hair fell from a high, regal brow, the brown locks coiled into a thick braid. His face was flawless and smooth, the skin clean-shaven and unblemished. Full lips were pulled into a taut expression of gravity. His black eyes seemed to envelope everything at once, missing nothing in an unintrusive sweep of all present. He was quite handsome, and each glance, each breath, each blink or the most minute of twitches seemed of the utmost grace and import.

He stopped before Aragorn. "Only your support, my Lord," he answered. His voice was strong, the sort that seemed made to deliver orders and inspire followers. He tipped forward slightly, bowing languidly. "I am Emperor Holis, liege of the Haradrim."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. Legolas watched the emotions play within the gray orbs. Though the ranger was masterful at hiding his thoughts, long years in his company had attuned the Elf to the most diminutive of signs. "You will have to excuse my suspicions, Lord Emperor," said Aragorn slowly, "but I shall need a bit more of an explanation."

Holis gave a bit of a pleasant, understanding grin. "Of course, my Lord. I am well aware of your losses, and I assure you that I am not alone in expressing my condolences. My people have grieved deeply for those this nation has lost."

The words sounded heart-felt, though they surprised everyone present. Aragorn nodded, clearly trying to reserve his judgment. Holis continued, the smile disappearing from his face. A frown tightened his lips and anger creased his brow. His black eyes glinted. "And I must apologize as well. I admit I am at fault for these attacks, though it shames me deeply to admit it. Long before it came to this I was remiss in informing you of the threat to your nation."

"Then inform us now, if you would be so kind," Aragorn responded. His tone was mellow, but carefully it concealed his mistrust and venomous rage.

They were silent a moment. The two lords held each other's gaze for a seeming eternity, as if gauging strengths and weaknesses, intentions and hopes, lies and truths. Legolas watched intently, his interest piqued at this silent war of wills, trying to decipher the meaning of this man's sudden arrival. Finally, Holis averted his gaze humbly, as if in submission to a greater man's power. Aragorn's face remained impassive, his posture erect and regal. Legolas darted a questioning look at Faramir, and the steward gave a small shake of his head.

"Given the urgency of the situation, I will be brief. Though it greatly stabs at my pride to admit so heinous a shortcoming, I must. My people are in a state of war. After you granted the Haradrim pardon, many of the tribes truly abandoned our ancient grudge with this nation. You must understand, my Lord, many of us did _not_ serve the Dark Lord willingly. It was a common plight to all the Haradrim, for since we lived so close to Sauron's black lands, we were unable to withstand the stinking reach of his evil. How he has warped our thoughts, our hopes, our fates!"

Gimli glared furiously at Holis with all the restraint of a rockslide. "That is hardly an excuse," he growled, accusation dripping from his words.

Holis looked to the Dwarf. Legolas expected to see him redden with anger. But his face was stoic, and his eyes empty. "I do not offer it as one," he explained gently. "Nor do I ask for your forgiveness. We Haradrim are a proud kind, and we do not hide behind rationalizations or pleas for leniency. The past is black indeed, but it is not solely of our making. We carry the burden of our mistakes. We do not try to hide or shun it. To do so would dishonor you, King Elessar, and ourselves as well." Gimli's expression softened with what his Elven friend assumed to be humility. Holis turned his gaze upon Aragorn again. "Many of my people wished for nothing but peace. However, as you well know, those that make their home in East Harad garner quite a vicious dispostion. I believe you call them 'Easterlings', yes?"

"We do," answered Aragorn.

Holis nodded solemnly. Anger flitted across his face. "Despite your absolution of our past crimes, their hate refused to die. I believe Sauron's black magic worked upon them in ways that could not be undone. Unrest spread in our outmost settlements. We had erected a new government after the fall of Barad-dûr, and these men did not agree with it. No matter of negotiation could ease their abhorrence of peace, it seemed. They festered in the east for more than a year, building their forces, and before my people could defend themselves, they attacked us. Since then we have been at war with them. Until recently, I believed we were finally earning our victory." Holis' expression became a glower of anger and grief. "Of late they have developed a… new tactic. They have splintered into smaller cells and factions that attack on many fronts. They plunder villages, raze homes, and slaughter innocents. When aid is sent, they lay in wait and ambush." Legolas grew tense and thought of Cair Andros. It was the same disturbing and gruesome tale. Fleeting images of burning buildings and bodies sent chills racing up and down his back. "Oft they will leave just one person alive to regale to the rescuers the horror of their brutality." Legolas looked directly at the emperor. His eyes flashed in fury. _Fethra._

Aragorn had obviously come to a similar conclusion. He clenched his jaw. "Why have you had such difficulty controlling these men?" asked the king.

Holis' eyes shone in disgust. "We have tried, my Lord. They honor no rules of engagement! They disregard dignity and respect! They do much to spite us, King Elessar, and it infuriates me that we have become so hapless in the face of their cruelty. They are cunning and vindictive. They travel quickly and leave no trail to follow. They rape and pillage and mark their conquests with my own standard!" The man's voice rose in pitch, and it was obvious he was struggling to contain his wrath. There was a pause in his rant as he sought his composure. In a blink the hurt and malice was gone from his eyes, and a placid expression returned to his striking face. "These men have brought my Empire to civil war. I refuse to stand idly and allow them to terrorize and traumatize my nation any longer."

The resolution was somehow encouraging. Faramir settled questioning eyes upon Holis. "What is it you want from Gondor?" he asked. Skepticism laced his words, and his gaze was tight and doubtful.

Holis released a slow breath and turned. For eyes so depthless and dark, his gaze was piercing. This he settled upon Faramir. Something had crawled into the fathomless orbs, some glint that was base and perhaps disconcerting, but Legolas could not pinpoint its nature. "You have seen the destruction, Steward," quietly announced the emperor.

Alarm flashed in Faramir's eyes. Anger was quick to follow. "How would you know such?"

"Surely you do not think that we are blind to your movements," explained Holis. "As you have your informants, we have ours." Something akin to condescension slipped into the man's melodic voice. Perhaps one less diligent might have missed it. Legolas slipped his fingers down his bowstring, gripping the arc of the weapon tightly in anger.

Holis did not miss his small movement. Suddenly the emperor's gaze was upon the Elf. They stood still, bright blue eyes upon orbs of midnight. Time slowed until it was still, and there was naught but the strength of this man's will contesting his own. Legolas stood tall, but inside a great maelstrom of bizarre fear swirled and churned within him. He felt oddly weak and queasy, as though some dark, malevolent force was reaching forth to caress his spirit. This grasping attempt to control him felt strangely familiar. Into those black depths he looked, and he saw nothing, nothing save cold ambition. Ambition. A will to dominate. And then it made shocking sense. This was not so different than the alluring call the One Ring had projected to any and all. For many days and nights had he listened to its insane melodies and whispers, to its vile promises. As he had stood watch over the sleeping Fellowship, it had plagued him, tempting him with powers unending. As an Elf he had not been immune to its call, though his personal detesting of all things black and sinister had granted him strength enough to keep its seductive whispers at bay. Others of the Fellowship had not been so endowed.

Yet this was quieter and less insistent. And it was less of an undeniable evil and more of a faint whisper of a threat. There was no blaring heat, no black touch, no battering force against his will. A simple caress, like a cold kiss to pressed to warm lips. In fact, so subtle was its touch upon him that he began to doubt almost instantly that there was any malevolence at all. Another fault of his damnable imagination, surely!

Then Holis looked away briefly, releasing Legolas from his stare. The Elf did not avert his hard glare. Once again this man allowed his defeat, and the prince could not help but ponder why. "Prince Legolas, son of Thranduil," announced Holis. The emperor returned his gaze to the archer, but all hint of his ire before had disappeared in a blink. His quick eyes scanned the Elf before him. Legolas was not impressed. His expression remained taut with annoyance and suspicion. "You will have to excuse my curiosity. I have so rarely encountered one of the Firstborn, and with your kind's departure from these shores, it seems the time to satiate my interests is rapidly disappearing."

The Elf cocked an eyebrow at the remark. "Not so rapidly, Emperor," returned the archer coolly.

Holis was incensed by the retort; his nostrils flared ever so slightly and his eyes flashed. But he restrained himself, only offering a small smile and a nod. "But of course, my prince. I did not mean to imply you no longer belong among men. We shall need the skill of the Elves to defeat this insurrection." His tone was soft and unimposing.

Remorse unwittingly flooded over Legolas. In the mysterious man's eyes now was a glint of apology and regret. So quickly did Holis' emotions change; the Elf wondered vaguely how much his own fatigue was affecting his senses. The hard expression slid from his fair face. "We stand beside Gondor."

They locked gazes again. Gone was the glint of conceited ambition. Gone was the moment of domination. Now there was naught but hopeful yearning, but grief and resolve. "And will Gondor stand beside Harad?" asked Holis. He turned to look upon Aragorn.

Aragorn glanced between the strange emperor and his most trusted ally. He was briefly quiet, and the area was void of any sound at all as the men waited for this most important of answers. Then the king set his jaw. "What do you suggest, Emperor?"

Holis' face was now calm, displaying only tranquility and seriousness. Legolas wondered if any of this was true, if this man could be so talented an actor. It was impossible to detect what he really thought, what he felt. "I propose an allegiance. I know not why our dissidents have suddenly turned their wrath upon your nation, King Elessar. Yet surely we can mutually benefit from an alliance between our forces. We can help you protect your cities. We know the enemy's movements. We understand their strengths and weaknesses. And in return for such information, Gondor will aid us in dispatching this revolt and uniting again the Haradrim under one banner."

"An alliance?" repeated Éomer. His eyes were wide and his voice incredulous.

The emperor's face betrayed nothing, but his eyes twinkled in hopeful sincerity. "Surely you see the merits in such a pact," he said. The words were wistful and a bit surprised that what he so clearly seemed to perceive as good might be less than favorable to the Lords of Gondor.

Aragorn glanced to Faramir. The motion was quick, but Legolas noted Faramir's torn eyes and expression. It mirrored the king's own. Silence slinked by, oily and decidedly awkward. Finally Aragorn released a slow breath. "You must allow me some time to consider this," he said. The rigidity of his tone permitted no question.

Nodding, the emperor conceded. "Of course. I would not ask otherwise of you. My informants have slipped into one the camps of the Easterlings. On the morrow I expect news from them. Let us convene again at that time. I trust that is acceptable?"

Aragorn nodded. "Aye."

Holis seemed relieved at the king's agreement. He stepped closer. His hand came from the red folds of his cloak and he grasped the other's shoulder. Aragorn stood tall, but Legolas saw the distrust in his eyes, the doubt. The physical contact was not welcomed. "I pray this will begin an era of peace between our two peoples. Much blood has been shed in the past, and hatred and anger has long divided us. Too long have my people served Sauron's will, slaves to his ambition. Now we oblige only our own hopes. Let us stand now, together, and face the dawn of this new age. The glory of Gondor and Harad unite under a common purpose."

Aragorn lifted his chin. "That is my wish as well," declared the king in a soft, calm voice.

The tanned fingers squeezed the king's shoulder firmly. "Then by the blood of my people, it shall be so." He released Aragorn and turned, his cloak swishing loudly as he walked. He exuded strength and serenity in each light step. "We shall guard your city this night. I doubt our foe would be so presumptuous as to attack with such a heightened defense, but the Easterlings have proved on numerous occasions that they are naught if not brazen."

"I thank you, Emperor," said Aragorn. Holis nodded. He kept his eyes ahead as he departed the group of lords, but when he passed Legolas he stopped.

The man regarded him with those empty eyes. The Elf found it most unsettling. "Perhaps one day you would be so inclined to tolerate my interest in Elves, my prince. War and leadership afford me little time to pursue my studies, and I am so intrigued by your race. I should much like to visit Ithilien." The man reached up and took Legolas' hand from the arc of his long bow. Legolas barely resisted the urge to recoil and pull away, tensing his form in anticipation. Holis turned over his hand and then ran the tips of his fingers along his palm. The man's touch was surprisingly warm, but it somehow felt rough and harsh against the Elf's skin. The touch swept over the archer's fingers. Holis' eyes narrowed as he closely inspected Legolas' hand. "Immortality is such a gift, and one that no simple force can mar or destroy," he said softly, awefully. "An expert archer for centuries, yet not a single callus upon his hands. Flawless. Infallible. Beautiful. Ageless and gifted with strength beyond measure. All the powers conjured by destiny, by the very will of the world, draw you away from our sides. And yet here you are. Unmoving and unchangeable." The man exhaled slowly, reverently. The two were still with the eyes of the entire crowd upon them. Standing stiffly was all Legolas could do to control the twisting of his stomach and the itching of his skin. The scrutiny was overwhelming.

Then Holis released Legolas' hand, and the Elf dropped it to his side. "We are fortunate such amazing creatures guide us upon our limited journey through life. I thank you, my Lord, that you hold the weak hearts of mortals in such high esteem."

_What does he mean by all this?_ Legolas could not determine Holis' intentions, but out of decorum he nodded. The man turned then, leaving the Elf feeling disturbed and confused. The ghost of the touch tickled his palm, and he squeezed tight his hand into a fist, seeking to scratch away the remainder of the haunting sensation. The prince's mind fell into a swampy gloom of shaken confusion. _Surely it was no threat… There was such reverence and interest in his voice! I do not understand!_

The Emperor mounted his horse in one swift motion. Ulpheth looked to the lords before pulling himself atop his steed as well. Holis grabbed the reins of his mount and pulled the animal around. "Until tomorrow, King Elessar." With one last sweeping look over the men assembled, he kicked his horse into a gallop. The others of the company followed, their black eyes void of all emotion. Vacant. Soulless.

The thunder of horses' hooves grew distant as the emperor and his retinue exited. The men of Gondor stared out the open gate until they melted into the shadows. Silence. Stillness. A great vacuous and hungry abyss grew of their restless spirits, demanding a greater resolution, a fuller understanding.

But the night was empty, asking nothing, offering nothing. There were no answers to be had.


	11. In the Late Hours

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: IN THE LATE HOURS**

For a long time nobody spoke. An ominous silence dominated the moment, infallible, unbreakable. The quiet stretched to eternity, and no one had the audacity to end it with trite words. What could be said, at any rate? Nothing could bring to them the sort of completion they each desired. Nothing could show them the path upon which they must walk or the correct decision to make. They had expected war, but they had been left with something far less concrete and infinitely more deadly.

Now they were forced to make their own future.

The realization was heavy, oppressive, and each man from the highest lord to the lowest soldier understood its repercussions. Gondor stood now at a great and mysterious crossroads. There was fog all round her, soupy and thick, obscuring sight and leaving the soul shriveling in dismay. There was a path that could lead to victory. More, perhaps many more, would lead to defeat. There were some that promised true alliance, friendship, and protection in battle. Others offered naught but desolation. And the road they would walk, the decision they would inevitably make, was covered in this clinging mist of suspicion and doubt. Only in hindsight would they know the correctness of their selection. Only when all was said and done would they see through the miasma and know the truth. Such a thought was not encouraging.

Aragorn spoke, taking command of the situation. The words sounded incredibly loud. "Please close the Gateway." The orders did not need to be relayed, for everyone present could hear them clearly so deep was this silence. The gate guards scrambled to their posts. Soon after, the ground rumbled and the massive doors slowly began to swing shut.

The long moment of uncertainty and silence, during which even Aragorn had seemed to falter, was over. The king turned, his face hard and his eyes stony. To the group of captains gathered he said quickly, "I want eyes fixed upon that army at all times. Have the archers guard the wall in shifts. If there is any movement that seems unusual, anything at all, report it to me."

The men snapped to attention. "Yes, sir!" they barked, saluting their king. Then they moved to make certain what Aragorn requested was done speedily and without error.

Legolas watched the soldiers rush about. The line of troops stationed behind the wall broke their formation, surprise and a bit of disappointment upon their faces. A low hum of voice and motion filled the once stagnant air. There was a sudden buzz of energy, of activity, and with that returned anger and uncertainty. It matched the Elf's mood rather well. He stood stiffly, his body itching to fight these waves of nauseating unease claiming him. He clenched and unclenched his fist. That touch, that lingering caress… so feathery light, yet heavy in all its veiled implications. Even digging his fingernails into his palm could not rid his skin of the haunting stroke of the man's hand upon his own. He felt inexplicably dirty. Tensing the muscles of his back and legs was all he could do to suppress the shudder tickling his spine.

"Thoughts?" Aragorn's voice drew Legolas' attention. The king watched him, and in those gray eyes was a storm. Concern spread over the man's face as he appraised Legolas with a suddenly worried gaze. Clearly Aragorn as well was unnerved by Holis' bizarre actions toward the archer. Disguised in interest, something deeper had driven the emperor in his inappropriate behavior. Legolas' face was pale and his eyes were a bit glazed, and he knew the others would see he was more riled by it all than he would show or admit. Thankfully, Aragorn did not address it. There were more pressing matters, at any rate.

Aragorn glanced around those assembled. All of them were a bit ashen-faced and starkly silent. "Speak freely," he grunted, a hint of annoyance lacing his tone, "for there is no time."

"I do not trust him, my Liege," came Irehadde's gruff voice. It was the obvious thought. His eyes blazed. "They come with no evidence, no proof to support these claims of civil unrest–"

Faramir shook his head. "He is an emperor, my Lord, the leader of his kind. He might think his word proof enough, as we do King Elessar's," he interrupted logically. Legolas tore himself from his distraught thoughts and looked to his friend. Faramir's face was white, and his eyes were tight in pain and exhaustion. Sweat was beading on his temples. He looked feverish and terribly fatigued.

Irehadde's face grew tight with disgust and dislike. "So you believe his statements?"

The steward released a slow breath and swallowed uncomfortably, as though battling dizziness. "I am merely seeking to remind the king that Holis perhaps came forth believing his sincerity to be sufficient evidence." He clenched his jaw. Legolas watched the muscles of his lean face flex with the motion. Faramir's eyes narrowed darkly. The steward was an analytical thinker. Legolas had learned well from their many discussions over Ithilien's reconstruction that the son of Denethor cherished a good puzzle, eagerly grasping any challenge to his sharp mind and agile wit. He took great faith in his own logic, and he was very good at piecing apart the most convoluted and ambiguous of problems. Now he seemed greatly vexed, frustrated that what he sought to understand was just out of his mind's reach. "But in answer to your question, no, I do not believe them, at least not wholly."

"What do you mean?" Éomer prompted. Inquiring hazel eyes centered upon his brother-in-law.

Faramir looked up. "Surely he seemed sincere about the unrest in Harad. There was conviction in his voice, and a great deal of grief and self-loathing over his own inability to handle his nation's difficulties. It is no easy act for a people so proud to come before their most hated enemy and propose an alliance." He glanced to Legolas. The Elf held his knowing gaze. "Yet there is something more to this, something darker and deeper. I… I cannot say more of it."

Irehadde gave an irritated grunt. "Suspicious premonitions, my Lord Steward, and nothing more!"

Faramir bridled quite visibly. Would this Dúnadan ever learn to control his lame tongue? Gimli quickly leapt to Faramir's defense. "Do not speak ill of the Steward's 'premonitions'. He is no want-wit when it comes to these sorts of matters, and I for one am greatly inclined to believe him." The stout Dwarf turned his gaze upon Aragorn. "Holis hides something, Aragorn. For every moment of sincerity came another of something… depraved. The way he acted towards the Elf…"

All grew silent and looked to the archer. Legolas fought the urge to shift uncomfortably under their questioning stares. Irehadde's was riddled with unspoken accusation, and he did not appreciate the sentiment. It seemed he could remain quiet no longer. "To say it did not disturb me would be a lie," announced Legolas softly. "I cannot explain it."

"What do the Elves know of the Easterlings?" asked Éomer. The King of Rohan was caught between his doubt and hope for a peaceful resolution. His voice held no heat for his Elven comrade.

Legolas released a slow, silent breath and shook his head. "Very little, I am afraid. The Emperor spoke truly of that at least. Mirkwood never had any dealings with the Haradrim. To my knowledge, neither did Imladris or Lothlórien. Admittedly, my first encounter with them was at Pelennor Fields." He grew frustrated at his own inability to supply useful information. Though the Easterlings made a home of the lands southeast of Mirkwood, they were distant enough that the Woodland Realm had never engaged with them. How or why Holis knew so much of him was not easily explained. Legolas was aware that his name had been known by the enemy during the war, but this was more than that.

"Surely more than simple interest drove his actions towards you," Imrahil declared. "It was almost unnatural."

"Do you think they intend to attack Ithilien?" Éomer asked suddenly, his voice anxious.

Faramir responded with, "I doubt they mean to attack any of our territories, at least not right now. As I said before, I believe this Emperor Holis to be true to his word. He needs this alliance to strengthen his nation. Furthermore, why come and supply us with this proposal if they only mean to betray it?"

"To distract us?" Gimli suggested.

"Nay," responded the steward. "It is not their way. As Holis said, they prefer to gloat their brutalities. There was enough hate in his voice to make me believe he spoke truly of the Easterling's deceptions." The steward lifted his eyes. "I worry, though, for he is a strange sort. He seeks to dominate, that much is clear. Perhaps it is only the ambition of any leader, but it struck me as particularly overbearing. He knows too much of us and our people, and he is more than simply proud of it. He flaunted it. He is arrogant." A hard edge came to Faramir's voice, and Legolas remembered the vicious, conceited look that had crawled into Holis' eyes as he had spoke to the steward. Then the anger released Faramir's face, and he sagged a bit. A shaking hand came to his forehead. "Forgive me. My mind escapes me."

Imrahil's brow creased in concern. "You are weary, Faramir. Do not exert yourself so."

"It is no bother to me," said Faramir softly, directing a weary gaze to Aragorn. "I am needed here." But his actions betrayed his words. His eyes slipped shut, and whatever color remained upon his cheeks was utterly sucked away, leaving him terribly pale. A breath later he fell, his knees abruptly refusing to support his weight any longer.

"Faramir!" cried Aragorn, but Legolas was faster. The Elf darted forward and caught Faramir in his arms as the ranger tipped towards the ground. Legolas gritted his teeth and silently cursed his wounded side, dismissing the pain and gently dropping to the ground, supporting Faramir's leaden body in his embrace.

Aragorn was at his side that instant. Legolas crouched, holding Faramir against his chest, lifting his head. He shared a panicked glance with his friend before Aragorn laid his strong hand against Faramir's brow. The king dipped his ear close to the steward's chest. A great crowd was forming around them, the eyes of many wide in surprise and worry as they beheld the scene. Aragorn sighed softly. "He has merely fainted." The king's steady fingers went to the clasps of Faramir's tunic, undoing them quickly. He pulled the folds of cloth away from the steward's injured shoulder, revealing white linens. Some were dotted with dried blood.

Gimli grunted from over Legolas' shoulder. "That fool! I told him his injury was no simple matter! I bade him to rest!" He gave a gruff _humph_ that spoke loudly of his concerned annoyance. Legolas heard the guilt his short companion sought to hide. "For so sharp a man, he certainly is quite ignorant of the obvious at times! Fool ranger!"

"Easy, Master Dwarf," said Éomer. He laid a comforting hand atop the riled Gimli's shoulder. "I doubt he will ever again so easily disregard such sound advice."

Gimli seemed content with Éomer's affirmation. Men were rushing forth; they had brought a litter without order. The crowd parted for their passage. As they approached, Faramir groaned and turned his head away from Legolas' chest. His eyelashes fluttered against his skin and he drew a deep breath.

Aragorn grasped the fallen ranger's face between his palms. "Faramir?" he said softly.

Weakly Faramir opened his eyes. The gray orbs were misted in hazy confusion and pain. He groaned and let his eyes slip shut again. "Please, Aragorn," he moaned softly, "tell me that I did _not_ just faint."

Aragorn shared a small smile with Legolas. But the mirth faded quickly from his worried face. "Let us take you back to the Citadel," the king declared, laying his hand upon Faramir's brow. "You run no fever, but I fear the poison has weakened you more than I anticipated. You should not have come down to the Gateway, my friend."

Faramir grunted. He struggled to sit up, pulling away from the Elf's supportive grasp. "Fie, my Lord, I am well." He brushed off their offers of assistance. Still, when he tried to stand again, he faltered, falling back into Legolas' arms. He moaned tiredly, his eyes dazed with pain, drops of sweat rolling down his pale visage.

Éomer helped the men carry in the gurney. "Come now, my brother," ushered he, motioning toward the litter. "You need rest, if not for your own sake, then for ours. I wish not to face the wrath of my sister upset." His hazel eyes twinkled in warmth, and though the words were spoken in jest, his concern for Faramir was no laughing matter. Faramir opened his mouth to protest further, for being carried to the Citadel in a litter was obviously a blow to his pride. But Éomer smiled slyly. "Be silent. There shall be no more argument over the matter."

Faramir nodded weakly in submission and his eyes slipped tiredly shut. He allowed Legolas and Aragorn to settle him into the gurney. The king drew a blanket that had been given to him by one of the servants up and over Faramir's shivering form. "Take him to Lady Éowyn," he ordered to the party. "Inform her that I shall be there shortly to ensure the Steward's comfort." The soldier nodded. The littered was lifted and quickly they left.

Aragorn sighed slowly. Though fatigue registered in his eyes, his voice was stern and powerful as he began to relay orders. "We have no choice but to wait until more becomes clear to us. Have riders dispatched to Emyn Arnen and South Ithilien." He glanced to Legolas, perhaps a bit apologetically, but certainly worriedly. "Both settlements must be evacuated. Whether or not the Haradrim mean to attack these regions, none can say, and I am unwilling to risk so many innocent lives."

"We shall have to prepare the city to receive so many refugees, my Lord," mused one of Aragorn's advisers.

"Do whatever is necessary. I want every gate reinforced. Everything must be kept on high alert. I do not want to think that the Haradrim mean us harm, but we cannot afford to be anything less than cautious. I call to each of you to ready your forces. We cannot know what lies ahead of us, but whatever fate has decreed for Gondor, we must be prepared to face it."

A chorus of agreement answered the king's instructions. "I must tend to the Steward. Until the morrow, then." Aragorn's eyes swept the group, and his words were met with nods. For a moment he stared at Legolas. The Elf was favoring his left side again, standing a little less than erect for his chest would permit no such position. Aragorn stepped to him and grasped both his shoulders. Gray eyes stared deeply into bright blue for a moment, and they spoke without words. Encouraged, the prince offered his friend a bit of a grin. Aragorn returned the gesture. Then the king stepped past him and, with attendants and soldiers in tow, began to walk briskly back to the Citadel.

The remainder of the group stood in silence. Legolas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could hear his heart beating loudly. The sound felt alien for its volume. There was a mixture of conversation then. Beregond approaching, running towards the Gate, inquiring about the news that his lord and charge fell. Éomer explaining that Faramir was well, that he had only momentarily lost his senses and that he was being taken to the Citadel. Beregond stammering, explaining that he had had to take leadership of the Citadel Guard since their commander had been killed in the assassination attempt. The other lords debating and discussing the evening's unsettling events. The hum of noise grew distant, hollow. He felt nauseous again, bile burning the back of his throat.

Gimli's hand reached up to grab the crook of his elbow. "Elf," spoke the Dwarf. Legolas opened his eyes and looked at his companion. "I do not suppose that you, too, will faint on me. You seem quite stricken."

Shocked, Legolas did not have a response. Was he that transparent? Was his weakness that obvious? He did not wish to be a burden upon anyone! Surely this wound was simply slow to heal. Given enough time, it would trouble him no longer. He was sure of it! Still, alarm caused his heart to race. _This paranoia… I am not myself._ Those black eyes. That faint touch. He shivered.

"Elf?" He opened his mouth to stammer an answer, but Gimli's deadpan expression dissolved into a grin. He chuckled. "Such a horrified look on your face! What a laugh! Legolas, son of Thranduil, prince of Eryn Lasgalen and Lord of Ithilien… hero of the War of the Ring, fainting dead away at my feet! Ah, but life is rarely so fair. How I would have liked to hold such an embarrassment over your head. For all the times you have vexed me would I but this once see _you_ so embarrassed! That would be far more priceless than all the gold in Erebor."

It was only a joke. Still, it had served to shake Legolas, and he was barely able to hide it. He only grinned feebly and nodded. Gimli seemed to sense his jest had an ill effect on his friend, for his smile slid away from his ruddy face. He shivered a bit as the cold night air settled upon them. "Come, Legolas, let us return to the warmth of our rooms. Waiting and staring at the gate will not make morning come any faster."

He allowed Gimli to lead him away from the Gateway. But even as he did, he could not shake this strange sickness. It was afflicting more than his fatigued body, he realized. It seemed to be reaching its poisonous torment into his very soul.

* * *

Minutes became hours. Legolas rubbed his eyes. He sat upon his bed in his room, a plate of food resting not far from him. His back was braced against the ornately carved, wooden headboard, and he was glad for its support. The mysterious attack he had suffered earlier that evening had left him riddled with dull aches and pains of the sort he had never before experienced. It seemed to have sucked from him his endurance as well, for his eyes kept stubbornly slipping shut. Perhaps tonight he would finally be able to sleep. The hope nearly made him giddy with anticipation.

Fethra sat happily in his lap. She was munching on a bit of cheese. According to Éowyn, the child had refused to eat until Legolas returned. She had spent the evening with the White Lady of Rohan and her attendants, and Fethra seemed to have finally accepted Éowyn as a friend. After Faramir had arrived, Éowyn's attentions left the little girl, and she had momentarily been placed into the Queen's care. Legolas had spent a moment assuring himself of Faramir's well-being and thanking Éowyn for caring for Fethra in his absence. She had responded with a small smile and a gentle nod, and then had gracefully shifted her doting to her prone husband sleeping in the grand bed of their quarters.

From there he had acquired the little girl from the Queen. Arwen had been glad to see him, for, as she had somewhat heatedly explained, she had been pent up inside the royal quarters for the better part of the day. The Guards permitted her little in the way of travel about the Citadel, and though she was typically very complacent, she had not appreciated their assertive inhibition of her activities. She had immediately noticed his pallor and withdrawn appearance, but he had said little to her concerns, simply brushing them aside, too tired and worn to lie about it. He felt wretched now for avoiding her questions and making short their meeting, but he had been unable to stand her imploring, loving eyes pore over every bit of his tired body and shredded spirit. He had just grabbed Fethra and given Arwen a soft kiss before departing, seeking sanctuary from the wondering eyes of others.

And after a short detour to the kitchen, he had fled to his room. It was a much needed release. Too many eyes had been watching him this evening. Before Fethra, he did not need to pretend he was not distraught. Before the child, the stoic mask could fall away. She would not care if he hurt, if he was weary, if he was disturbed.

"Eat, Leglass!" cried the girl, giving him piece of cheese from the plate. "Eat!"

He laughed lightly. "I am really not hungry, Fethra. I told you before." That was the truth of it, at least. His stomach had not quite settled from earlier, and he did not dare fill it with anything when he might later come to regret eating. The thought of food at once nauseated and enticed him.

She tugged on his hair, wrapping the golden strands in her small fists. "Momma always said to eat when you're sad. It makes you feel better." Her green eyes were wide and imploring.

Legolas released a slow breath into the top of her head. "Who says I am sad, little one?"

"I do." She lifted the cheese to his lips. "You look sad."

His abdomen and side clenched in dull, fiery agony, but he only obliged her, slowly eating the piece of cheese. It had no taste to him. She smiled, pleased with herself, before grabbing a bit of fruit from the plate and offering it to him. They did not speak further for a long while, the distressed Elf allowing the small child to feed him. It was perhaps comical, but Legolas felt no inclination to laugh. Instead he was glad for Fethra's innocent ministrations. He treasured the simple weight of her body, the smell of her hair and her skin, the heat of her form against his cold self.

Finally, the child asked, "Why are you so sad, Leglass?"

The question took him aback because he did not know how to answer it. His mind raced lethargically, swirling with a pained responsibility to somehow respond to her naïve interrogative. It seemed a trite question, borne only of her love for him and her unhappiness at seeing him distraught. But how does one explain war to a child? How does one make a creature so young and pure understand all that happened and what still might? It was so complicated, so terrible and burdensome, that he wished with all his might that there might be some simple answer to her question. His fatigued mind could conjure forth no such panacea, so he spoke without thinking. "Many people have died, Fethra."

"Like Momma?" the child whispered.

"Yes," Legolas admitted softly. He pulled her tightly to him. "Many more might. All of Gondor is in danger."

She leaned her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "But you'll protect them, won't you? Like you protect me?" There was such innocence in her voice. To her the matter was achingly simple. He was infallible. He would defend them all.

He pressed his lips to the mess of her hair. "I will try," he promised.

Quiet came to the room. Fethra nuzzled closer to his chest, pushing her cheek through the folds of his undershirt to rest it against the warm flesh of his breast. Legolas' eyes began to slip stubbornly shut again, his head pulsing tiredly with too many unanswered questions and unresolved tensions. Far too tired to sort through the tangled knot of emotion and thought, he let go of his aches, of his fears, of his grief. Through the mess came a comforting oblivion. It beckoned to him, and he was just about to relinquish his hold upon wakefulness when a giggle pulled him back to a groggy awareness. "Your heart's beating, Leglass."

He smiled but did not open his eyes. "That is good, Fethra."

Then she pulled away and sat up on his lap. Tiredly he abandoned the call of sleep to watch her jiggle up and down, veritably bouncing. "Play with me!" she demanded in a squeal, tugging his hands and clothes.

The Elf grimaced inwardly; truly he should have known better. Though it seemed to have been days since he had gone to the vaults below the Tower of Ecthelion, it was only a few short hours ago. Fethra had taken a nap while he had read and researched, which unfortunately explained her energy now. Selfishness stormed through his head, forcing him to speak words he knew would do little to deflate the child. "I am tired, little one. You have played all evening."

She climbed up, standing in his lap, her foot smacking rather unceremoniously into his tender side. Legolas hissed and moaned, pulling her forcefully to his right to relieve the pressure upon the sore area. Almost instantaneously she realized she had caused him pain, and her eyes filled with shameful tears. Swallowing his discomfort, he forced a smile unto his lips. "It is alright. You did not hurt me," he lied, regaining his breath.

Her chin quivered. "You won't leave me like Momma, right?"

The thought terrified him as much as it did her. "Of course not," he gasped. He took her face in his hands, his thumbs wiping the tears as they escaped from her frightened eyes. "I will never leave you. I promise you." The gravity of his own words hurt somehow. They tasted sour, although he could not be sure if the foul sensation was due to them or to the queasiness plaguing him. But he only smiled, wishing to comfort her and tired of his own wretched thoughts. "I am tired, sweet one. We cannot play now. Shall I tell you a story instead?"

Wide eyes glistened brightly a moment in the golden light of the fireplace. Then she nodded silently and laid her head against his chest again. He wove his fingers through her hair and gently smoothed out the curls as he began to speak. "Many, many years ago, there was a little wood Elf. He was a mischievous child, and he lived in a big kingdom of Elves. His father was the king of all the elves of the forests, and his mother was their queen."

"Did that make him a prince?" asked Fethra.

He smiled. "Yes, it did. But he had many older brothers, which meant that he would never become king."

"Why not?"

"Elves live forever," explained Legolas patiently. He gave her a mock look of irritation. "I told you this before, remember? Because the little Elf had so many older brothers and they would never grow old and die, ruling the kingdom would never come to him." She nodded her understanding, her thumb once again finding its way into her mouth. Legolas pulled her hand away. "So the Elf did not care to study or to learn how to be a king. His father loved him dearly, but the king was also very busy with the kingdom. The little Elf did not understand, though, and he thought his father did not care about him. He was left to his own devices mostly, and he loved to play and to explore." Fethra reached for another bit of fruit and put that in her mouth instead.

"One day the little Elf was supposed to have his bath, only he very much wanted to go outside and play. He had managed to avoid his bath for many hours. His mother told him, 'You must be clean, little Elf. No prince should be this dirty!' But the little Elf was watching the squirrels in the trees outside, and he wanted to be with them. He loved the trees very much."

"Why?"

The Elf's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why what?"

"Why did the little Elf like trees? Trees are boring. Not like horses or dogs or cats! They just stand there!"

Legolas laughed, trying to figure out a way to explain to her the connection Elves had with all of Middle Earth and the splendor of its forests. "Well, Fethra, wood Elves have… a special bond with trees. They are as much brothers and sisters as kin. But this particular little Elf loved the woods more than most of his kind. His father had named him after the forests of their kingdom. And the trees cherished him in return for his affection."

"That's silly, Leglass!" cried Fethra. She giggled, her chubby face scrunched in her laughter. "Trees can't love people!"

He hugged her close and dipped his face close to hers. "Of course they can," he whispered, smiling broadly. "You just have to know how to hear them. Sometimes, if you stand very, very still and listen very, very hard, you can hear them speak to each other." Her face lit up in joy. "The wind rustles the leaves, and then they sing."

She laughed. "Did the little Elf hear the trees sing?"

"Every day of his life," responded Legolas. "Now the little Elf slipped outside while his mother was readying his bath. He was quite the little brat, this child, and sneaky, too. He went out into the courtyards of his father's palace where he loved to play. He loved the squirrels, because they always paid attention to him, even when his parents were too busy. The squirrels were squawking at him, inviting him to come up and play with them, so he climbed the tree. He had done this many times in the past, so he was not afraid. In fact, this little Elf was not afraid of anything. He did not care for being a prince, nor did he care for baths or study or sleep. But he did care about adventure, and climbing was quite an adventure to him." She watched him speak, her eyes rapt and attentive. "Once he thought he had reached the squirrels, they had only gone higher. So the little Elf, being quite foolish, climbed higher and higher after him. He kept going up and up. This was a very tall tree, and he was really high before he realized it."

"What did he do?" asked Fethra softly.

"He was frightened," Legolas responded equally as quietly. "He could not see the ground, and the squirrels had abandoned him. He started to cry, but he did not think anyone could hear him. Eventually he thought that climbing down from so high would be just as easy as it had been to climb up. But he was shaking, so scared he was, and he fell."

Fethra's eyes were wide. "Did he get hurt?"

"No. His mother had called his father, and his father was a mighty Elf that was very strong and could move very fast. His father caught him before he hit the ground."

"Then what happened, Leglass?"

The archer sighed gently, his eyes distant. "Well, the king was quite cross with the little Elf. The little Elf was very ashamed of what he had done, mostly because he made his father so mad at him. He cried because he had frightened his father and because his father was so angry with him. His father had been afraid too, Fethra, afraid that his son might die." Legolas released a slow breath. "He thought now more than ever his father hated him. Later, when the little Elf had had his bath, he was very tired and his mother was putting him to bed. He was still sad, so his mother sang to him. And when she had finished her lullaby, she said to him, 'Even a prince has a father, and even a king has a son.'

"After that, he tried to become a good prince. He took his baths, did his studies, and honored what he was. He did not try to escape to the squirrels anymore. He knew now that his father loved him very much. And he never forgot what his mother had said to him, even to this day."

It was silent a moment. Legolas could not help but wonder what had made him think of this particular memory. Vividly he recalled the boom of his father's voice after falling from the tree, the smell of the soapy bath water, the taste of his own salty tears, the cool, soft caress of his mother's elegant hand upon his head. He had thought he would never win his father's affection again after that incident. But he had been about as wise as he was obedient, and his father was quick to forgive. That very night Thranduil had come into his youngest son's room as his mother had sung his piteously sobbing form to sleep. Though the king had said nothing, Legolas now knew that that had been his father's way of expressing his love. A different time came to him. _"My son."_ The words were clear and vivid to him, as if only yesterday they had been spoken. _"I can see it in your eyes. You yearn for the sea. It will tear you asunder if you ignore it, and you will suffer pain like nothing you have ever known. Please! You are all I have left of your mother. Do not do this to her memory, to me, or to yourself. You must come to the West with us. Our kingdom is fading, and our time is over. You have already given far too much of yourself to the world of mortals. They do not deserve your life. If you stay, you will die!"_

"Leglass?"

These were his father's parting words, spoken the night before all that remained of his family had sailed for the Undying Lands without him. Slowly they faded. He looked down, shaking away the anger. Shaking away the grief. The pain. "What?"

He felt tears seep into the cloth of his tunic. "I miss Momma. Do you think she misses me?"

He squeezed her tightly against him. "Of course," he answered resolutely.

"How do you know?" she whispered, gazing up at him with watery eyes. In those green orbs was such a desperate wish for him to somehow take away her pain.

He sighed gently and resumed stroking her hair. "I lost my mother, too," he declared quietly, holding her gaze, "a long time ago."

"But Elves can't die."

"Sometimes they do, little one," he corrected forlornly. His voice was laden with sorrow then, and he hated himself for such a wanton display of his grief, grief that should have been tempered by the long years of his life between this moment and his mother's death. But he tumbled on, unwilling to hold this within him. "I was younger, then. A dark time had come to our forests, and my father did not take well to her death. He did not come out of his room for many, many days. My siblings were much older than me, and they grieved without much care for me. When I was alone, I always told myself that no matter how badly I missed her, she could never be sad again. All she would know is happiness, and that made me happy. She would not have wanted me to be so sad, and so I stopped." He lifted Fethra up then and set her so that she faced him. He smiled. "Now let us talk of something else. I am with you now, and I love you. That is what matters."

He tickled her, and she gasped her laughter. The sound was joyous, easing his pain and helping him forget the past. They spent the rest of the evening comfortable in each other's presence. Fethra lay with him on the bed, listening as he sang of Elves and the Valar. He told her a softened version of a valiant quest undertaken by a brave Hobbit and his friends to destroy an item of great evil. He spoke of happier times, of grand heroes and epic adventures. Eventually she fell asleep, lulled by the magic of his gentle voice.

Legolas shifted a bit. The exhaustion came quickly back to him. Knowing that Fethra slumbered peacefully eased him tremendously, and that weariness called to him again, allowing him to shun the pressures of the world. He swam through memory and thought, reaching towards the enticing emptiness sleep promised. He was so very tired… It seemed ages had passed since he had last found peace. Sleep…

Someone knocked at his door.

_Curse this all!_ Attention snapped into place, dashing the void, and Legolas came to awareness once more. Fury coursed over him, igniting every hurt into a renewed throb with a fiery passion. He groaned his anger, wishing with every ounce of his exhausted being that whoever had come to disturb his peace would simply vanish and leave him be. But the knocking came again, insisting that he rise and see what business was so terribly important.

Legolas grasped his hurting shoulder after he gingerly untangled himself from Fethra. Grabbing the burning candle from the bedside table, he stood, and the world spun about his panging head. Clumsily he went to the door, trying hard to summon some sort of composure to calm his riled nerves and return grace to his step. Unlocking the door, he grasped the cold knob and pulled it open.

Surprise washed him cold. "Velathir?"

The dark-haired Elf nodded slowly. His gentle face was wide and apologetic. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, my Lord," he declared softly. Legolas opened the door wider, stepping a bit into the hall. The stone was cold beneath his bare feet. "We have only just arrived from Ithilien, and I wished to inform you that all is well. I received your orders from Lord Valandil, and all the preparations have been made."

Irritation coursed through the Elf prince. Velathir had woken him for such mundane news? Surely that could have waited until morning! But he kept his ire from his voice. "Good," he answered, struggling to maintain his equanimity. "Is there anything else?"

The Elf smiled weakly. "I have brought you a bit of tea. Lord Aragorn informed me you suffered a small wound, and I hoped this would ease any discomfort you might have." The timid aide offered his lord a saucer. Upon it rested a cup filled with steaming liquid. Legolas received the beverage, feeling a bit ashamed of his anger. "I also retrieved this from a page that was seeking you. He said you had left it in the meeting hall." Now the long, pale fingers held forward a dark, rectangular object.

Legolas' face furrowed in confusion momentarily, and then memory slammed back into his slowed mind. It was the book he had found in the vaults. _Stupid,_ seethed his conscience. _Can you not think of anything with any amount of clarity?_ The book had completely fled his head; he had utterly forgotten about it. Sheepishly he took it from Velathir with his other hand, nodding. A small, embarrassed grin twisted his lips. "Thank you, Velathir. I am glad you have come."

The other Elf smiled genuinely. "As am I, my Lord. Good night."

"Good night."

Legolas then closed the door and locked it behind him. He stood still a moment, feeling suddenly disgusted by sleep. He set the candle down on the desk that furnished his room and he sat in its stiff chair. The wavering golden light spread over the book. His eye caught the inscription on the cover. _Palantiri._ It seemed so long ago he had had those random ideas about the seeing stones that now it all was frivolous to him.

He stared at the book blankly, taking a sip of the tea. It was sweet, a bit too sweet for his tastes, but he had noticed of late that Velathir had been brewing tea of this flavor. It felt good to his throat, soothing his aching body and head as its heat trickled deep inside him. He had drunken almost all of it before he noticed.

His fingers swept over the cover of the book. He pondered it for quite some time, the light of the candle caressing his face in yellows, glimmering in his eyes like liquid fire. Was the idea truly so foolish? He thought back to the boy that had died, to those desperate words said to him upon a fading breath. Much had happened since then even if only a matter of hours had passed, and his concerns about the _palantíri_ seemed less founded now than they had then.

The Elf prince sat there for quite some time. The tea had settled his stomach and eased the ache in his head. His eyelids grew droopy, sliding down of their own volition, and he found himself pillowing his head upon his folded arms. The bed seemed too far away, and sleep was rapidly taking him. He did not fight it, slipping into the quiet.

There came a knock at his door. Again.

A harsh, hissed curse fled his lips as he angrily stood. His side immediately tightened in angry protest to the sudden movement, but he ignored it, too enflamed by this second disturbance to bother. He grabbed the door, unlocked it, and yanked it open, a flurry of less than pleasant comments pushing insistently up his throat.

He said none of them. The wrathful glare dropped from his face almost immediately.

Aragorn smiled shamefacedly, his form shrouded in shadows. They did not speak for a moment, watching each other and wondering at the other's appearance. Worry creased Aragorn's brow, adding years to his handsome face. "Are you well?" he asked in Elvish. "You look most… rattled."

Legolas sighed gently and stepped aside a bit, allowing Aragorn entrance. "Of course," he asked simply. A sly smile came to his face despite his previously foul temperament. "It is possible to startle an Elf, Aragorn. You of all people should know that."

Aragorn was not accepting this lame excuse, and Legolas knew it immediately. "Perhaps. But you are not just any Elf, Legolas. Something troubles you."

Irritation bubbled inside the Elf prince, both at the ridiculous statement of the blatantly obvious and at Aragorn's broaching of the topic. This confrontation was the exact thing he had labored to avoid all evening. In a hushed tone, so as not to wake the sleeping Fethra, he brushed aside the comment. "You mean to say you came here simply to assure yourself of my well-being?" He folded his arms across his chest.

Aragorn closed the door behind him. "Aye," he said. His face was deathly serious for a moment longer, and then he averted his eyes and grinned weakly. "Well, that in addition to the fact that I could not sleep."

Legolas' ire faded slightly, and he smiled knowingly. He had discovered during their many hunts and voyages into the wilderness that his friend was an incredibly light-sleeper. Legolas himself had rarely rested, taking a constant watch over their small camps. Aragorn was quite fitful in slumber, twisting and turning, and he would often awaken at the slightest noise. He did not envy Arwen her position; spending each night in the same bed with the man was a punishment he would wish on no one. "So the truth rears its ugly head," murmured the Elf. "Would you care to divulge to me what so disturbs your rest?"

The jest was a welcome ray of light in the dark morass of their turmoil. Aragorn grinned weakly. "I will," he began, "if you would be so kind as to reveal your troubles as well."

Legolas stiffened. The exchange irritated him anew, and he turned. They were quiet then, the emptiness painful and riddled with uncertainty and hurt. Their friendship hardly shielded either of them from the battering of their anguish upon their hearts. Aragorn finally neared Legolas and placed his hand upon the Elf's shoulder. "Then let us not speak of your troubles, Legolas. I would not be so brash as to pry into your privacy. Just know that I am here to listen, should you wish it."

The Elf grew frustrated with himself and pivoted to face his devoted friend. "Nay, Aragorn, I am acting childishly. I am sorry." He sighed, feeling his form sag tiredly. He did not have the strength any longer to appear composed and above this all. "I am greatly worried. My mind is plagued by many things, not the least of which is this war approaching. Something sinister looms before us. I see Fethra," he said, looking to the bed, "and my world melts in fury and grief. I am worried for her. What kind of life can she lead now, without siblings or parents? Without a home and scarred by the horrors she has seen? I do not want to see more children left as messages of the Easterlings' brutality!"

He looked down and went on, the words coming quickly as though they had suddenly become a poison he desperately needed to expel. "I am worried for the colony, for what this conflict will mean for the Elves. I try to have strength, but all I can hear is my father pleading that I join my family in Valinor. I think of Tathar, and my soul shrivels in guilt and fear that I am selfishly condemning many more Elves to the same fate and denying them a place among our kin beyond these shores. I am worried for Faramir. How many more may fall as he nearly did? I am worried for you and the choices you must make. I am worried for Gondor, that it so recently has won peace to only now have it snatched from its fingers once more." The Elf sighed. His breath was quivering. He felt a sob push its way up his throat. "Most of all," he whispered, closing his eyes, "I worry for myself, because I have not slept in many days. So many. I can find no peace."

Aragorn was still. Legolas blankly gazed ahead, waiting for his friend's reaction, praying for some sort of acceptance, of solace. For some remedy to his insomnia. Then the king squeezed his shoulder. "Do you dream, Legolas?" he inquired softly.

The Elf swallowed his pain, forcing the tears from his eyes. "Nay," he admitted, "not of late."

The simple touch of Aragorn's hand to Legolas' shoulder was a bridge, it seemed, a link between them that bound together the souls of brothers. Aragorn murmured, "I have dreamt. Over and over again I see the glory of Gondor before me. The vitality of my people is a beautiful thing. Black banners wave on a cool breeze. They fly over Minas Tirith, spirited on a fair wind, and they are so high, so aloft, so above anything and everything that nothing can reach them." There came a shaking sigh. "But now I see that they are not so high, that everything is not such a glamorous fantasy. There is death and violence in this world, and far too much of it. It makes my soul so black with fury and guilt. 'We destroyed the Dark Lord,' I think. 'Was it not enough? What more must we do? Have we not done enough?'" Anger crawled into his tone. "Why can we not have peace?" Legolas did not speak. His heart strained in quaking agony; how he wished he could offer his friend an answer! But there was no answer. Peace was untenable, unsustainable. His father had always believed that, and as much as he had never cared for the pessimism in his youth, maturity had bequeathed realism. "There is a path we must walk, and everyone looks to me to find it. I am a ranger, after all, and I have located many obscured trails through labyrinths of crags and thick brush and dense forests. But this path I cannot see. No matter how hard I try, I cannot see it! We fail, and the dream turns to nightmare. Those banners, drenched in blood, blow on a low wind that races through empty streets. Minas Tirith burns in my dreams. It burns! That wind reeks of burning flesh and ash. And then… I am the king of a damned nation, a failure of the people, the ruler of countless dead spirits and hapless bodies."

His harsh words echoed in the quiet room. Pounding and pressing, they slammed against them, bouncing off of walls that had no wish to hear such a dismal tale of their own destruction. "This is my dream, and I am terrified of it."

There it was. Their fears released, their grief vented. It poisoned the air, stinging their lungs as they breathed, filling them with doubt and dread. So black was the night, and there seemed to be no escape.

Legolas grew frustrated. "It will not be so." He turned around and held the man's gaze, forcing strength to his eyes and bravado into his voice. He set his jaw firmly. "We can fight this. Together, as we always have." His hand rose to clasp Aragorn on his shoulder. "I know we can."

Aragorn held his gaze for a bit, as drawing power from it to revitalize his doubting spirit. Legolas saw the question swirl in the other's eyes, and his heart pulsed in apprehension. The words spilled from Aragorn's lips. "What would you–"

The Elf cringed. "Do not ask me, Aragorn. I am a poor judge of matters of state. You know that." He hoped his father's refusal to instill princely mindsets into him would be enough to excuse him from answering Aragorn's inquiry. But the words sounded lame and weak, and deep inside he knew they would do little to dissuade his friend.

"I do not ask you as a prince. I ask you as my dearest friend, whose opinion I value greatly." Into the king's words had come a note of insistence. "Please, Legolas. What would you do?"

He opened his mouth to dismiss the inquiry again, but he realized the disservice he was ding them both. The silence became heavy, filled with Aragorn's anxious expectancy and his mounting sense of resignation, so he only closed his mouth and thought. Contemplation yielded little aside from the same infuriating questions and unsatisfying conclusions. Finally he sighed, averting his gaze to hide his displeasure and doubt. He turned to stare into the shadows. "I suppose I would trust them," he murmured. He did not like the way the words sounded, but he continued nonetheless. "We cannot afford to do otherwise."

There was no response. Legolas felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. In silence they lingered, wondering, waiting, wishing that all they feared would not come true. What he had said rested in the moment, hanging tantalizingly before him, spearing his heart with despair. How he wished Aragorn had not put him in such a position! Legolas clenched his fist. Anger merged with his grief, creating a monster that ate hungrily at his restraint. How dare he? How dare his friend presume to lay upon him choices that were not his own?

He felt as though he had been forced to lie, but he was not sure by whom or what. His friend? The truth? Logic? But he said nothing, swallowing his ire. It turned his stomach again, tasting bitter and drying his mouth. "How fares your wound?" Aragorn asked. The words were pitifully casual.

Legolas drew a shallow breath in an attempt to cast aside his resentment. Tears burned his eyes, and he was glad for the low light. "It is fine," he muttered. "Do not trouble yourself with it."

Silence. Aragorn knew him far too well to miss the antagonism littered about his curt words. "Have I offended you, my friend?"

It was a painfully simple question, but the hurt in the king's voice melted Legolas' anger. In a flash it was gone, leaving him weakened. Shame stabbed at his resolve. "No," whispered the stricken Elf. "Ai, Aragorn… I am so tired."

At first Aragorn did not respond. Then the king took his arm and forced him to turn about. They stared at one another. Aragorn took his hand then, lifting it between their chests. The king's eyes dropped. He dragged his fingertip along the length of Legolas' palm, and then each of his fingers spread widely, tracing the path of the Elf's long digits. Rough met smooth, age touched ageless. Legolas watched the languid action. "He saw the strength in this hand," the king softly said. "He felt it." His other hand came to grasp the archer's tightly. "But he knew your hand would never hold his as it does mine. I saw it in his eyes. He envied this. He envied me because of what I share with you." The king pulled him close and then embraced him tightly. Legolas closed his eyes, breathing deeply, finding his friend's warmth a great comfort to his battered body. "I stand strong because of you."

The fear momentarily faded in the heat of their friendship. Legolas sighed, willing to forget for however long the chance lasted. Still and peaceful, they stood. It was enough to at least ward away the demons of this night.

Then Aragorn leaned back. He smiled widely and patted Legolas' cheek gently before turning. "Sleep, Legolas. I will need your assistance in these coming days. Find peace in the child." A playful glint crept into Aragorn's eyes as he looked back. "She is quite attached to you. I would not have thought it. Shall I teach her her first bit of Sindarin, _ada?_" He stressed the final word quite purposefully.

Legolas steeled him with a mock glare and shook his head. "Is it not time you returned to bed, Aragorn? Arwen has had enough sleep, I suppose."

The king responded to his mischievous grin with a pathetic look of indignity. Then he chuckled, opening the door. Even he knew how terribly vexing his poor sleeping habits were. "Good night," he said.

"Good night, Aragorn." The king slipped outside, shutting the door behind him.

Silence.

A long breath. A whisper of hurt, of a tormented mind.

He was no longer tired.

He stood helplessly, fighting the burn of tears in his eyes. Rage and frustration pounded mercilessly at his restraint. He began to sway, buffeted by invisible waves of anguish, his body caught in a hapless torrent of insomnia. He remained as such until he could no longer tell the passage of time. Minutes. Hours, maybe. It mattered not. He could not calm his racing mind, his stress denying him the one thing he desired above all else.

A clenched whimper fled his lips. He opened his eyes and tensed his weary body, standing perfectly still. His eyes darted between the comfort of his bed and the book that lay idly upon his desk. Innocently it seemed to beckon to him, demanding his attention, pleading that he know its secrets. His mind came alive again, and a flurry of questions pierced his exhaustion. Energy rushed over his body inexplicably, and sleep disappeared into a storm of apathy. The seamless, fathomless oblivion finally gave up in its quest to capture him. It was hopeless.

Legolas padded softly to the desk. Reaching down, he laid his hand over the ingrained words. _Palantiri_. He knew very little Adûnaic. It was not a tongue the scholars of Mirkwood thought of particular use to their students. The hour was late, and even if it were not, whom could he ask for help in translation? Faramir had once revealed to him over a friendly glass of wine that he held great interest in objects of lore and legend. Gandalf the Gray had taken the young steward under his proverbial wing, teaching him many useful skills and facts. Perhaps he would know these foreign words…

But it was very late, and Faramir was wounded. All the Citadel was likely to be asleep. There was nobody.

He sighed. He settled into the unforgiving chair, his body screaming in stiff protest. Tiredly he opened the book and began to read what he could. His numbed mind concentrated blearily on the words. He was the only one who could not sleep, who was plagued by waking nightmare. The only one chained to the darkness. A slave to minutes and hours, to days.

A prisoner of the everlasting night.

* * *

_ada_ – father (daddy)


	12. A World of Red

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I want to thank everyone who is reading, alerting, and reviewing this story. I really appreciate all of the support! :-D

This story now takes a turn for the dark (well, darker). I just want to put a warning on it upfront, so here it is. **WARNING:** this chapter contains depictions of torture and rape (not described in detail). Please be advised and read at your own discretion.

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER TWELVE: A WORLD OF RED**

He was falling. Through a deep, endless void he tumbled, slamming at first through sight and sound, and then through blackness, through nothingness. For an eternity he went down, and he could neither breathe nor think to scream as he careened into the formless shadow. There was nothing in this abyss. A cold sense of utter solitude tormented his terrified heart, and his sluggish mind realized this was no calming lull of sleep. There was no peace, no comfort, no promise of rest or reprieve. He was rapidly slipping into a hungry emptiness, and he feared he was not dreaming.

Something snapped. There was terrible pain, spreading along his shoulders and ripping at his arms and wrists. Everything jerked violently, and suddenly he sucked in a long, shaking breath. Straining lungs quaked within him, hardly functioning from the agony spreading about him. He blinked. Once. Twice. His vision would not clear, and vaguely he knew the blurriness to be due to a well of unshed, stinging tears. Sensation slammed back into his body, leaving him reeling and disoriented. Where was he?

There was a horrific crack, and a terrible, jolting pain spread across his back. Jamming his teeth into his tongue was all he could do to stifle his cry of surprise. Reality slapped him cruelly and suddenly the haze lifted from his mind. The world was red. Bright crimson seeped into every crevice and corner, and he could not see clearly beyond its bloody shroud. Perhaps there were forms in the scarlet fog; barely could he perceive hints of moving shadows and the edges of inanimate objects. He squinted, his frantic eyes scanning about his surroundings. But there were no answers. He had no time to think of it further.

Pain sliced through him again, though this time it had struck his lower chest. He groaned and looked about frantically, struggling to catch his racing breath and calm his frenzied heart. Realization struck him harshly, and panic washed his body in hot waves of despair. How could this be? His mind tumbled and twisted, desperate to somehow rationalize the information his senses were supplying it. His hands were bound, it seemed, above his head. The cuff of metal manacles pinched and chafed his skin as he struggled. For his movements, he was rewarded with another blinding blast of pain across his exposed back.

_No._

He had to be dreaming!

_Where am I?_

There came a cruel laugh, and again something hard and unforgiving sliced into his skin. It was too heavy to be a whip, his paralyzed mind finally concluded, and it snapped with the sound of clanking metal. The length of a chain. It hit his side, and the links snapped around to bite and tear into the flesh of his stomach.

The shadowy forms took shape around him. Gleeful smiles. Black eyes. Monsters. Demons.

_This is not real. It cannot be real! This is not real!_ Frantically he sought to escape, kicking ferociously and straining the length of his legs, praying that he might down his bare feet to the floor and relieve a bit of the terrible tension upon his shoulders and wrists. But there did not seem to be a floor. Frustrated and fearful, he resorted to lashing out at whatever harassing figure was closest to his helpless body. He could not touch them. He fought and fought, forcing strength into his horrified and hurting limbs, but for all the want of his anguished heart, he could do nothing!

The chain descended again and again, and the pain was blinding. He stiffened with each blow, struggling to simply overcome the shaking agony spreading from the deep gashes and cuts. Blood ran freely down his body, matting in his hair, dripping down his legs, splattering with a deafening hollow sound to the ground that did not exist. He tasted the bitterness, having bitten his tongue forcefully to stifle the screams building in his throat. The blazing agony melded with his pulsing heart, beating over his body like waves of the ocean upon the shore. Snap. Drip. Snap. His body shook and convulsed, barely enduring the endless torture. Thick red spilled down torn and ripped skin. His life's blood was fleeing him, and he was too weak to fight. _Wake up,_ cried his desperate mind. The chain crashed against him, and he jerked, arching his back and quivering. If only he could part with this nightmare! If only he could parse dream from reality, lurid fear from peaceful truth! He had fallen through that black void. Surely there was a way to escape, to flee from this senseless torment!

Eventually he abandoned his terrified attempts to understand. The agony became too excruciating, and his hold on rational thought teetered. A muted throb of thought battered the confines his skull, beating him with panicked, animalistic passion, with a singular demand. _Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!_ The chant pummeled him as did the chain, and he could withstand the violent insistence of neither.

Finally, it ceased. A choked sob escaped shaking lips, and it took his brutalized, confused mind a moment to realize he was the one who was wheezing so shallowly. He gasped hungrily for air, caring not that it smelled of sweat and his own blood. The red world devoured him, and he did naught but hang limply and fight for breath. His sense of self emerged again from the daze of quivering fear and pulsating agony. _Fight this. It is in your mind. You are not here. Wake up!_

A hand came to touch his face. He snapped his eyes open, immediately recoiling. Whoever had so viciously been beating him refused him this tiny act of defiance, wrapping the coil of the chain about his pale neck tightly and forcing him to be still. The links tightened sadistically, squeezing and bruising his flesh, choking him.

"You have not screamed for me." The deep voice came from everywhere at once, from before him, behind him, within him. His flesh suddenly crawled with icy chills as the words touched him, languid in their caress. The hand slipped down his cheek, and a smooth thumb came to sweep over his closed lips. "Will you not cry your submission?"

But he said nothing. Though he stared and stared, he could not piece together the features of the face before him. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. But they were separate entities, as if defying the very purpose of their making and existing apart from each other. They formed no cohesive identity. But he had heard that tone before. He had seen those eyes. This was dreadfully familiar, and that terrified him to his very core.

The faceless demon leaned close to him, and he could feel the sickeningly sweet heat of the other's breath upon his cheek. "I will take what you will not give," came a whispered promise. The words were somehow both melodic and vicious. "You try to stand tall and proud before me, but you will not. No one will." The hand grasped his chin, and the gentle touch hideously morphed into a violent hold. He winced. "I will have you simply because I can. Does that frighten you?" Lips twisted into a smile. "_My_ words make the sun to rise and set and the winds to blow, and all things come into being because of what _I_ decree. I see the purpose in creation, specifically the meaning of _your_ existence. In this world, all things have their uses. Yours is to challenge _me_."

His eyes widened. The monster was amused by his alarm. The smile grew wider, more confident and satisfied. "Do not doubt that I will break you. I will make you kneel before me and exclaim your acquiescence. You were made, and I shall unmake you."

"No," he whispered, horrified at the statements but unable to swallow his defiance. He did not understand, but hatred welled up within him hot enough to fuel his opposition. He could barely draw breath enough to speak, but he spat out his venomous retort all the same. "You have no such power!"

"Shh, my little creature." The lips caressed his. He jerked back in disgust. A hand wrapped in his hair and yanked cruelly, pulling back his head. Blankly his eyes stared into the bloody shadows above, looking frantically for some sort of escape. Every muscle in his body tensed in horrified anticipation. The evil slithered into his soul. Ice touched his heat, and he held his breath. That chilly mouth kissed the throbbing of his pulse in the white column of his neck. "Your heart beats. I can make it cease as Ilüvatar bade it to start." The touch was like poison to him, and he choked on his breath. "You cannot stop me. You are but a small thing, a weak creature caught in a place that no longer belongs to him, trapped in a world that cares not for his doting. You were torn between this place and the next, and you chose wrongly."

"That is not true!" he snapped angrily, finding strength in the blaze of his fury.

The grip on his hair relaxed, but he was not allowed to move of his own volition. Hand reached up from the shadows and took the sides of his face. "Ah, but it _is_ true. Why do you linger? Do you think you may yet do good in this world that no more opens its embrace to you?" A cruel laugh cut through his resolve. "Silly and pathetic. I will give meaning to your now meaningless existence. You are mine. I have taken you. I will change what you thought unchangeable, touch…" A groping hand snaked its way between his legs. His eyes blazed in repulsed fury, but he could not wriggle away. "… what you believed untouchable. What would you offer me to release you from the torment of your sleepless nights? What would you give to me in return for your freedom?"

"Begone!" he cried. "This is but a dream!"

The demon laughed outright. The eyes were lifeless, soulless, but they somehow managed to glow in hungry, sadistic delight. "It is no dream," whispered the shadow. Eager lips took his own. He cried his shock and abhorrence, trying frantically to escape, but the chain tightened its strangling hold and he could do nothing. He shuddered as he was finally released, and he was left panting and reeling and fearfully realizing that this evil ran deeper and darker than he could fathom. "It is as I said. You are mine. And what you do not offer freely, I will take."

The demon was gone, slipping into the ruby mists, and the length of chain around his throat choked him. His vision blurred. He could not get the air into his lungs to scream as the pain came again. The flesh was flailed from his back. There was naught but agony, devastating, breath-taking agony, and a river of blood.

Fingers scraped over his skin. "Scream for me, my little creature."

He groaned his misery. Desperation drove him; he had nothing else left. "Please, do not…" he pleaded.

His clothing was ripped from him. Hands grabbed him. The grip turned cruel, and then pain like nothing else he had ever endured came to him. The chain tightened about his throat. He could not breathe. He could not! "Scream for me!"

_No. Please! Stop!_

The red shattered with the piercing cry of his torment. A merciless laugh followed.

_No!_

Legolas' eyes snapped open and he released a wrangled, gasping sob. He held very still, lost in a sea of panicked turmoil, afraid to even so much as twitch lest the pain return. The disorder of his senses was slow to right itself, feeding his terrifed mind a muddled collection of perceptions. Where was he? When was he?

The familiar appearance of the ceiling of his room filled his teary eyes. Something soft was beneath him, and he realized belatedly that he was no longer agonizingly suspended by his arms. He felt something wet and warm below him, but somehow through the clouds of pain and terror, he knew it to merely be sweat, not blood. Frantically his hands grabbed at his tunic, desperate to prove to his disbelieving and reeling mind that the fabric covered him. That he was dressed. The snap of the chain was gone, offering only the aftershocks of phantom pain as a token of its existence. There were no lips upon him, no hands touching him, no one behind him.

He was in his room. There were no demons. He was safe.

Powerful relief left him weeping and shivering. Legolas closed his eyes, horrific images and memories assailing him. _Ai, what was that? What was that? _His jumbled mind could make no sense of it. He felt every slick caress, every bite of metal into his flesh, every torture… the drip of his blood. The trauma was so real, so staggeringly vivid, that he nearly slipped back into it. His chest was heaving in his struggle for breath, his heart pounding madly. The whole of his body ached, and he felt terribly dirty. For a moment only could he question the fact that such a vicious and brutal thing had happened to him. Perhaps it had been a figment of his mind, a cruel illusion made from fear and exhaustion. Perhaps that gross paranoia had merely adopted a new form to molest him. Surely it could not have been real! Surely it had been a dream!

"_It is no dream."_

Legolas shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory. _No! Make this not true! Please!_ He whimpered in utter despair. He wanted to curl tightly into himself and hide from the pain and humiliation, to disappear into darkness and never again show his face, to sink into the bed and hide. His body was leaden and unresponsive and escape would not be so easy. The terror was slow to recede, and when it did, it left such harrowing grief in its wake that he feared he might simply succumb to its strength and wither. He felt so weak, so violated. A dark vice squeezed his heart, and he could not breathe for the pain in his chest. How he wanted to die! The revolting ordeal tortured him still, flashing through his hapless mind again and again until he could barely stand its horrific details. _How could I have been so weak? How could I have let that happen?_

_Please, someone… anyone! Make this not true!_

The bed abruptly shuddered and almost instantaneously a rough weight fell over his chest. Legolas gasped and opened his shocked eyes.

He saw red. _Crack. Drip. Blood._

But it was only Fethra's pendant. It hung over his nose as she leaned over his face. Stunned, he watched the light of the rising sun catch the small gem, causing it to glow vibrantly. A moment passed in which he could do naught but stare at it, finding the swirl of ruby and crimson within it somehow peaceable. In its light he lost himself, its pulse of color inexplicably soothing his torn heart. He thought of nothing for this blessed instant, his mind suddenly numbed and senseless, and the apathy was a gentle balm to his wavering spirit.

She giggled from where she sat across his chest. "Is it wake up time, Leglass?" she asked cheerily.

The Elf swallowed, trying vehemently to wet his dry mouth enough to speak. This seemed so unreal, so impossible, that it was a difficult endeavor to simply rationalize the apparent safety of reality. She bounced up and down, watching him with a childish smile widely spanning her face. His side throbbed with her action, but he hardly felt it. "Wake up, Leglass! Wake up!" she cried shrilly, gaily. The sound hurt his aching head.

"I am up," he rasped. Had he truly been screaming? His voice sounded rough enough to convince him. It was alien to his ears. Like his tingling, throbbing body, it seemed not his own.

She obviously did not sense his duress, chatting happily about inane matters. Legolas sat up tenderly, irrationally fearing at any moment his body might just break apart, or that there might indeed be blood drooling from gashes upon his back, or that demons might leap from the shadows clinging to his room. These were ludicrous worries under normal conditions, but this was hardly ordinary, and he was traumatized and terrified.

The Elf drew a short breath at the stabbing pain in his side, subconsciously grasping Fethra's wriggling form and settling her into his lap as he tenderly swung his legs from the bed. He sat still a moment, glancing around in stupefaction. Dawn was just beginning to stream through open windows, and a cool, morning breeze ruffled the curtains. Splintered memories of the night before were slow to form a cohesive sequence, but eventually from the mist emerged the truth. He had tried to sleep. Then Velathir had come with the book and the tea. Legolas glanced to the desk. The wind rustled the pages of the open volume, sending them gently fluttering against invisible fingers. The empty teacup rested idly upon its saucer. Aragorn had appeared shortly after, and they had talked briefly. The conversation slowly came to him, the talk of worries and dreams and tentative alliances. Bidding his friend a good night, he had sat down to attempt to read the tome describing the _palantíri_. What then? His mind drew a frustrating blank. Had he fallen asleep? Had he stumbled into bed?

Legolas clenched his fist, squeezing the rumpled sheets in his hand until his fingers ached, furious with the holes in his memory. Why could he not remember? He damned himself for this lapse. Had someone crept into his room? That held little logic, but he could not brush aside the idea. Certainly he could not have been taken captive, tortured so viciously, and…_No! Do not think it!_ His soul quaked, but he thundered onward with his reasoning. Was it feasible to think that he had been somehow kidnapped during the night and then returned without his remembering? No, it was not. He could not stifle a shudder as he painfully recalled the strength of the chain as it assaulted his back, as he remembered the amount of blood he had lost. The white linens of his bed were flawless, crisp and clean. A panicked hand reached around to touch his back. He felt naught but damp cloth. Yet this was not enough to appease him. He roughly set Fethra aside and stood quickly, lifting his tunic.

Shaking fingers pressed about his chest, searching for signs of the damage, of the bruises and the bloody lacerations. There was naught but the bandages wrapped around his wounded side and shoulder. He reached behind him, running probing fingers down his back. But he only felt warm, smooth skin. Then his desperate eyes turned to the shirt he held in his hands. He intently searched the fabric, but there was no blood, no sign that anything at all had happened to him.

But even this did not satisfy him. He stumbled to the door, his legs wobbling uncharacteristically, and grabbed the knob. It was unlocked. Had he secured it last night? He could not remember! He could not be sure of anything!

These thoughts swirled and swirled in his mind, ripping from him his sense of security, of power, of control. A cold wind burst into the room, and he shivered as it yanked at his limp hair, as its icy fingers touched his blazing skin. _Ai, what has happened to me? I feel so lost, so afraid…_

"Leglass?" came a tentative whimper. He looked to the bed. Fethra had crawled to its edge. Her face was scrunched in tears and fright. "Leglass!"

Thought fled. He could not withstand the pummeling waves of his pain any more, and he stumbled to the bed beside her. She was in his arms a moment later, and he held her tightly, pressing her to his chest. She tangled her arms around his neck and sighed, contented by his nearness. Her scent flooded his nostrils, but even it could not blot out the stench of sex and blood that clung to him. Legolas closed his eyes, but the tears still escaped as he held her. His entire body shook in great waves of anguish. Still, somehow he managed to find his voice. "Shh," he whispered. "All is well. It will be alright. Shh."

The chilly breeze swept by them, taking with it his comforting words and leaving nothing but the pain.

* * *

The Citadel Guards stationed outside the king's quarters were quite surprised to see the Elf and the child rush up to them. The men exchanged puzzled glances, wondering at the prince's sudden appearance. Legolas imagined he looked rather unusual; he had barely straightened his clothing and hair before exiting his room, so driven was he by disgust and fear. There had been no other option to him; the incident hurt far too much to keep silent, and he had begun to wonder about its purpose. He did not have the poise at the moment to question himself about the decorum of what he was doing. He had but one choice.

"I must see King Elessar," he declared as calmly as he could. Fethra buried her face tighter into his neck, obviously greatly upset by his rushed and panicked actions.

One of the Guards stepped forward. His face was darkly bearded, and his eyes set in suspicion. "The king is accepting no visitors so early," he announced coldly.

The hurt welled up inside Legolas, driving him to anger. He had no patience to deal with this man and his prejudiced attempts to demean him. "It is urgent!" he snapped, his blue eyes icy. "Please, tell him I am here!" He was unable to keep the anger from his tone, and it was enough to drive the Guards into motion. He appeared before them utterly frantic, his eyes flashing wildly, his long, blond hair in disarray, his face pale. He had raised his voice to them, which was uncommon, as he was typically soft-spoken and calm. It was an unnerving and threatening sight.

One of the men slipped inside the double doors. The Elf stood stiffly while he waited, but inside his anxiety was eating hungrily at his resolve. Idly he considered the stupidity of the situation. Just the night before Aragorn had slipped unnoticed from his guards and visited him without so much as a single obstacle denying him from his destination. It had seemed a simple matter. Thus far, Legolas had had to convince a multitude of soldiers protecting each winding corridor and staircase of his good and important intentions. He had been stopped at every juncture and questioned. His bleeding heart could tolerate no more such delay or doubt in his character, and he felt his temper fraying. He did not deserve to be treated as an enemy.

Finally the soldier reappeared. "I am sorry to have denied you entrance. The king welcomes you."

Legolas offered no thanks as he charged by the astounded Guards. The door was held open for him, and he finally entered the king's chambers.

Arwen turned at his appearance. The Queen was dressed in a flowing, purple robe that shimmered as she moved. Her abundant hair was pinned back. She flashed him a radiant smile, but the gesture quickly disappeared when she noticed his pallor, his wild eyes, his blatantly obvious distress. "Legolas," she said softly, stepping to him. Her voice was full of worry. She took his face between her slender, cool hands, and her thumb brushed over the drying trails of his tears. He could not bear to look upon her, averting his eyes in devastating shame. The Elf prince felt horridly disgusting before her, as though her simple touch might spread the plague of his dark ordeal to her purity. "What is wrong?"

"Please, Arwen, can you look after Fethra for a moment?" The lump in his throat permitted only a whisper, a mere shade of his voice's normal strength. "I… I must speak with Aragorn."

For a moment she said nothing, her expression taut with fear and concern. Questions pursed her lips, but she realized his urgency for she did not speak them. Instead she nodded and dropped her hands. She opened her arms and Legolas gently handed her the small child in his arms. Fethra was sucking on her thumb again, but neither Elf was composed enough to reprimand the girl. Arwen brushed the unruly locks from her brow as Fethra settled against her. She was obviously unhappy as she reluctantly tore her gaze from her troubled friend. Arwen forced joy into her voice as she slowly walked away, speaking in hushed tones to Fethra. Legolas watched as they disappeared into an antechamber where the child would be sheltered from the substance of the conversation.

Sudden footsteps surprised Legolas, and he nearly jumped. It was only Aragorn emerging from another area of the large room. The Elf castigated himself for his weakened senses and poor control. The king spotted his friend and, as had happened with Arwen, his warm, greeting smile slid from his face. He abandoned adjusting his attire as he quickly approached. "Legolas," he said quietly, "you look terrible. What has happened?"

A shuddering breath escaped the shaking lips of the Elf. "I finally slept, Aragorn," he explained.

Aragorn gently motioned that they enter a more private area. A small terrace was set to the left of the chamber, the outlet filled the bright morning sun. Legolas winced as they stepped into the light and looked out over the city. Everything seemed as it should, Minas Tirith serene with the arrival of a beautiful autumn day. "That is good," Aragorn eventually commented when the Elf supplied nothing further. The king was rattled as well, for in all the long years they had been friends, he had never before seen Legolas as such.

"No, you do not understand," Legolas countered. He faltered. Self-loathing bubbled through him like black murk, choking his heart. Now, when it mattered, he could not bring himself to speak. The pain was still too fresh, the terror too real, the anguish too near. He had come all this way, and he could not explain himself! He shuddered in the cold wind, wanting desperately to divulge what had occurred, but his will failed him.

Aragorn watched him with wide, waiting eyes, his face twisted in exasperated worry. Clearly the Elf's disinclination to speak had alerted him further to his friend's affliction. His eyes became imploring as he grasped Legolas' shoulder. The touch repulsed the hurting Elf, and he pulled away. Somehow that action was enough to jostle from him the terrible truth. "Something came to me in the night. I cannot explain it. I do not know if it was a dream, or…" He could not finish. Some part of his sanity had become fettered to the hope that it had all been some perverted nightmare and it could not afford to even entertain any idea otherwise.

"What?"

Legolas lowered his gaze to the stones beneath their feet. The scene became blurry. "They had taken me," he whispered.

"Who?"

Anger surged through him, a fury hotter than the sun that something so vile, so degrading, had been done to him without so much as a single intimation of its perpetrator. "I do not know!" he shouted, turning around sharply. His eyes blazed. "I could not see them! Everything was so very red, and I could not make sense of it." His breath charged the air, and frustration and grief shook his voice. "I tried so hard to see…" Guilt riddled him and he had to look away again.

Aragorn did not respond immediately, but when he did, he did so softly and patiently. "Tell me what happened."

The invitation was too powerful to refuse. The dam he had erected around the horrendous truth fell as the pain bashed against it, and he spoke in a suddenly calm, low tone. "They beat me, tortured me. I was bound. I could not fight. And then a voice came from the haze. It sounded so familiar, as if I should have known of its owner, and yet I could not place it." The Elf gave a wry smile, his face twisting with just a bit of maniacal despondency. "He spoke of my submission, of my purpose as his… _challenge_. He questioned my place upon Middle Earth." He chuckled, though there was nothing at all amusing. "He implied he had the will to change matters beyond any being's control. Foolish, arrogant words spewed from his mouth, and I defied him."

Legolas became silent. The memory returned unbidden of those cruel taunts and jeers. Of that painful kiss. His will fled him, as fickle as it was, and he turned away, unwilling to let Aragorn see his shame. The king was quiet as well, most likely struggling to understand the muddled words of his distraught friend. When the emptiness became unbearable, Aragorn had no choice but to prompt him. "Speak. I will think no less of you."

The Elf felt every muscle in his drained body clench in rage. His lips moved of their own accord. "He forced himself upon me." The whisper had come from his own mouth, but he could not make himself believe its truth. Denial was too alluring an escape. "He defiled me and then laughed at my screams."

The soft words hung on the air. Neither was willing to accept them. Neither was willing to believe such a thing possible. But what choice had they? The truth could be not be refuted, not for all the want of their straining hearts. Souls quivered. The morning had turned black and cold.

A short breath fled the king's lips, and on it was a whispered prayer pleading for strength. His eyes were wide in shock and anger, and the normal strength of his face had shattered, leaving a frightened man frantic to somehow rationalize what he had heard. "It was only a dream, Legolas."

"Nay!" retorted the horrified Elf. His eyes flashed as he recoiled from Aragorn, stepping away and shaking his head. "It was not! He said as much!"

"It had to be a dream!" Aragorn insisted vehemently. Ire flashed in his gray eyes. He was clearly unwilling to believe otherwise. Legolas did not know whether to be insulted or glad, so muddled were his emotions. "It could not have happened!" The Elf did not respond to that; he simply did not know what to say. His strengths shifted so quickly that he was lost in the storm of memory and agitation. Silence returned, one wrought with pain and hopeless anger. Aragorn walked to the edge of the terrace, grasping the cold railing so hard his knuckles were white. Legolas had not once looked at him, standing to the side, staring emptily out across Minas Tirith. The city glowed a pearly white in the golden sun of daybreak. The breeze wafted by them, sending his hair blowing. "If not a dream, then what?" Aragorn softly inquired. His voice spoke of his struggle to understand.

Legolas swallowed uncomfortably. "A warning, perhaps," he answered quietly. "A premonition."

"Of what?"

Annoyance forced sharpness to his voice that he did not want. "I know not, Aragorn! Nor do I know why it came to me! I do not have any answers!"

Aragorn grunted and turned away. The Elf did not want pity. Legolas was a proud creature, and he abhorred such treatment. Never did he want to be a burden. Never did he enjoy the prospect of others thinking lowly of him or his plights. The two friends stood again in an awkward quiet.

"Who could do such a thing?" Aragorn's question was rhetorical, but Legolas wished adamantly that he had the knowledge to answer it. "Who could attack you through dreams?"

It suddenly made expeditious sense as he stood there gazing over Pelennor Fields. Frantically, Legolas turned and grabbed Aragorn's arm. "There is something very black at work here." Blue eyes blazed with the frenzy of his words. "Something dark and dangerous seeks to destroy us. No simple force could do this! It was so terribly real… You must agree with me!"

"Surely I do, Legolas, but who? And why?"

The Elf bit his lip in frustration. "I cannot say. But I am certain that is somehow involves them." His shaking fingers swept over the scene before him where, in the distance, the army of the Haradrim had camped. From this vantage they appeared little more than waves of black grasses shifting and bending in the wind.

Aragorn's face fell. His brow creased in unenthusiastic consideration. "There is no evidence they could be involved," he declared quietly, turning to look upon his friend.

Legolas' emotions were stealing his composure. He spoke quickly and without much thought, desperate to convince Aragorn of his argument, positive of the veracity of this newfound belief. "Yet there is no evidence to the contrary, either."

The wind spoke in their stead then, and tension seeped into the silence. Aragorn's next words greatly surprised Legolas. "Let me see your wound."

Taken aback, the Elf drew away from him, stepping back and fixing Aragorn with a suspicious stare. "What? Why?"

The king sighed, looked up, and held his friend's gaze firmly. The archer watched the emotions play across his friend's face, but they moved so quickly that he could make no sense of them. One thing was clear and constant, though, and it glimmered in Aragorn's eyes. It pierced Legolas' pride, his sense of worth, his hope. Doubt. "Please, I must examine it."

Rage blossomed inside the Elf like a bloody flower, and his voice rose in shaking anger. "My wound has naught to do with this!" Then it hit him, as brutal as the chain cracking into his flesh, as unwanted and chilling as the touches upon his hapless body. His eyes widened and cold waves of betrayal lanced his spirit. "You do not believe me," he whispered weakly. This had for some reason never occurred to him.

Hurt shone in Aragorn's eyes. He stepped towards Legolas, who retreated at his approach. Had the Elf been more composed and less offended, such a childish action would never have even graced his mind. But the pain would allow him no other recourse. He felt so terribly ashamed and guilty, and even though he saw the very same troubles in his friend's sad gaze, he could not make himself trust their honesty. "Please, Legolas," Aragorn said. His weak voice betrayed his fear and remorse. "I do not mean to doubt you, but I must be certain. I did not wish to say anything last night out of respect, but I know you are not well. I know you are hiding how hurt you truly are. I have known since I saw you after Cair Andros. Do you think I could have possibly not noticed how you suffer?"

The king's unthreatening tone gave him pause. There was no hint of malice in Aragorn's voice, and Legolas felt wretched then for having thought so lowly of his friend. Were he in Aragorn's place, he might do the same. Were it his friend so destroyed, appearing as such a wounded mess before him, he was certain he would consider the same alternatives. The truth was too horrific, too impossible. Legolas was a strong Elf, with senses far too keen and a body honed by centuries of experience and talent in combat. Never had he fallen in battle. Never had he faltered. For such a thing to happen to him… it did not make sense. And neither of them wanted it to.

Legolas released a slow breath, forcing his body to relax and his pounding heart to slow. He nodded sullenly in defeat. His numb fingers slowly and clumsily undid the loosely drawn ties of his tunic. Then his eyes darted about madly; every shadow was a potential threat to him. Irrational, he knew, but his behavior had changed so quickly in the wake of his assault. Aragorn stepped closer cautiously, not missing his friend's terrified actions, his face betraying how greatly bothered he was by them. Legolas' whole form was riddled with fear, his muscles tight and his breath short. Memories came unbidden, and again he was plagued by the touch of rough hands and lips. _Stop this! Aragorn will not hurt you! How could you even think such?_

Summoning forth whatever remained of his shattered courage, he gingerly lifted his shirt. He barely felt the painful protest of his injuries as he pulled the cloth over his head. He drew a deep breath to calm his riled nerves and waited, vulnerable and helpless.

Quiet reigned for a moment longer, and the only touch upon him was the cold brush of the wind. Then he heard a soft step. Warm, rough hands spread along his shoulder blades. Legolas jerked subconsciously, holding back furious tears as the nightmare tortured him anew. The gentle touch pressed down his back. There was no blood, he knew. No slashes or bruised welts. He sadly wished that there were, though. At least that would lend credibility to his claims. At least that would substantiate this torment, casting light upon its phantasmal tortures, giving truth to nightmare and easing his pleading spirit.

He lifted his arms without request, standing stiffly. Aragorn set about quickly unwrapping the linen bandages. Legolas could barely force himself to breathe, for his chest has tightened and his throat had constricted. Finally the aged wound was revealed.

Gentle fingers prodded at his ribs. He made no sound though the discomfort was great. Numbness had spread over him, a sort of potent indifference that served to shield a battered spirit from further harm and humiliation. Aragorn squinted as he analyzed the bruised flesh. "This is not healing as it should," commented the king. Legolas barely registered the words. Nothing made sense to him, and he hated the way his flesh crawled at Aragorn's ministrations. "It is strange. This wound seems as fresh and new as the day I first treated it. Yet there are no signs of infection or poison." In his voice was a great deal of confusion and disappointment; clearly he had hoped that the injury might explain Legolas' behavior. Perhaps he was not so certain it did not.

The Elf closed his eyes. His jaw tightened. "Why would I lie about this?" he demanded harshly. He lowered his arms and slipped his tunic over his head again before Aragorn had a chance to rewrap his wound. "What reason could I possibly have to conjure up something so terrible?"

The king's face broke in horrified anger. "I do not think you are lying!"

"Then why can you not believe what I say?" exclaimed the Elf, his own fury and panic burning in his eyes as his ripped around and glared at his friend. "I am telling you, nay, _begging_ you; do not trust them! Evil plots against us and it stems from them!"

Aragorn approached his seething friend and looked straight into his eyes. His hissed lowly, "I am _king_, Legolas. I cannot make such a grand decision based on an unsubstantiated nightmare! You said yourself that you could not identify your attacker – "

"Yes, but – "

The man shook his head, holding Legolas' harsh glare. "They have presented to me no solid reason to deny their request for alliance. I will admit that their appearance does disturb me, but I cannot in good faith as a leader turn them away based solely upon coincidence!"

"Coincidence? That is not – "

"If we can benefit each other's causes with peace, even if it is only temporary, I must be willing to risk the chance this is all a ruse. I refuse to see more innocents slaughtered!" He dropped his tone. "I have given this much thought since last night. I do not trust them, no, but I feel that misgiving is borne from prejudice and fear, not from fact. I will not let such a weakness define the future of this nation. I will not. Believe you me, we are all above such base reasoning. War threatens us and we must put aside old differences. This is not a decision I make lightly."

"But you will make it wrongly," countered Legolas. Hastily he tightened the draws of his tunic about his bare chest, unwilling to appear so exposed any longer. "And you will do so without my consent. Last night you thought my opinion of value. Will you now tell me differently? You asked me what I would do, and now I will tell you plainly. They are evil. This appears innocent enough, but there is much more beneath their façade that we cannot see!"

"Last night _you_ thought them amiable. Last night you bade me to trust them. A terrible dream comes to you that yields no proof beyond what your tormented imagination can conjure, and you change your mind! Tell me what about this lends credibility to your cautions, and you know that I will gladly heed them! Tell me what clue lies within this dream, and you know I will listen!"

Rage flared within him, hotter and brighter than the sun. "It was no dream, Aragorn! It was no dream!"

"There is not a mark on you! If you truly had sustained such a beating, there would be blood, wounds…"

The Elf floundered. Therein was the problem, he knew. There was no evidence. There was nothing aside from his own memory of the event, a memory that not even he could be certain was untainted by his own exhaustion and despair. The fire of his anger cooled in the front of such opposition, and he looked away. Tears blurred his eyes, desperate, stinging tears that he refused to release. He felt so terribly dirty, so used…

Hands came to grasp his shoulders, strong, friendly hands, but Legolas felt ill at their touch. The world spun around him in nauseating circles. "Please, you have been through so much these past days. Fatigue has driven your mind in nightmare." Aragorn's expression was tense with despair and deep worry. This exchange obviously upset and frightened him greatly. It was with good reason. Legolas had never been so distraught, so shaken and shattered. So lost. This was not who he was, what he was. "You are weary and hurt. You know not what you speak."

"Why is my word suddenly not enough?" Legolas asked.

Aragorn's grip became harder, as if he wished physically to press his reasons into the Elf. "Because I am king," he adamantly repeated. "As your friend, as your _brother_, I would need no more than what you have said. But I cannot make choices so easily in my position. I cannot act on your word alone, especially when neither you nor I understand the meaning of this… this… this vision!"

The Elf jerked away. The anger surged up within him once more, driving his weary body. "You betray me with your doubt, Aragorn."

The king's calm expression shattered in innocent hurt and ire. Were it any other time, Legolas would have felt terribly guilty for saying such a horrible thing. Were it any other time, this conversation would have never occurred. They were the calmest of friends, brothers at heart, and they did not quarrel easily. But something inside the Elf drove him to make Aragorn believe him, and he was awfully hurt as well that his closest friend would rather account his words to sickness and dismiss them than take them for their worth.

There came the sound of a throat clearing. Both man and Elf glanced to the opening of the terrace, forgetful in their argument that the world around them still existed. A page cleared his throat nervously, obviously knowing that he was interrupting something quite serious. He looked as if he wished to bolt. "My Lord, the Haradrim await you at the Gateway. They have important news for you."

Legolas looked down in shame and fury, turning away from Aragorn so the other would not see the frustrated tears in his eyes. Aragorn sighed slowly, releasing himself from the intensity of their conversation, and looked to the frazzled man. "Send word for Lord Faramir to meet me at the gate. Summon King Éomer as well, if you would."

"As you wish, sire," came the polite reply. The soft fall of feet alerted the Elf to the man's departure, but he did not turn. Something inside him pulsed in a fury stronger than he had ever before known. _This is folly. We walk into their trap. I know it! Aragorn, why will you not heed my words?_ But he did not say these things. He was too hurt, too spiteful, to care much any longer.

He felt the king's weariness and worry as though they were tangible. A hand touched his upon the cold banister. "Legolas, please," Aragorn pleaded softly. His eyes were wide and imploring. The Elf could see in them sympathy and concern, agony for his plight and suffering, and the glint of a wish that somehow this terrible event be undone. "Go and seek some reprieve. I do not need you on the field today. I would much prefer to know that you are safe, and that you are recovering from this. Surely this did not really happen to you. It is in your mind. Nothing could do such a thing to you, my friend. I am sure of it." The words meant little, for the damage had been done. It hurt too much to consider the truth in what Aragorn had said. To do so would make false his shaky perception of reality, of certainty, of himself. "I am here for you. It breaks my heart to see you as such. Please, I beg you. Go and rest."

"Why?" Legolas snapped. "I will not find peace in wakefulness, and I certainly will not sleep again."

Aragorn tensed with the hateful, frightened words. "I could prepare a draught for you," he offered gently, as though coaxing a wounded animal closer to him so that he might treat it. "You would rest easily, with no dreams."

The Elf released a cruel laugh. "You would drug me into a senseless stupor? Do you think so lowly of me? Thank you, but no. I will face this myself if you will not help me."

"Legolas, please, stop this! You are not yourself! You talk of madness!"

He turned upon his friend a piercing, murderous stare. "Then perhaps I am mad, Aragorn. Perhaps my mind seeks to torture me with phantom pains and sick caresses. Perhaps there is no truth beyond the veil of my own thoughts. For days have I suffered without sleep, and I can continue to do so." He shook his head and gave a strangled laugh. "No, my Lord. I express my deepest gratitude, but this is clearly a plight with which I must contend in solitude." He gave a stiff bow. He could not tolerate to be in Aragorn's presence any longer. He was dirty, unwanted, and unworthy of Aragorn's esteems. Bitterness choked him as he spoke. "I shall join you at the Gateway, my King. Forgive me my rambling and I thank you for your time." The coldness of his normally soft voice stunned even him, but the cruel apathy that had taken hold of him in protection allowed him to feel little. Aragorn's face shattered in hurt, the gray eyes glistening wetly. But Legolas could not bear the weight of what had happened and what they had said. He was no prince, no Elf, no friend. He was a victim. He was weak.

He turned quickly and stalked away. His mind closed itself to the pain, and his body moved of its own accord. He stepped to the small chamber where Arwen sat with Fethra and settled his eyes upon the child and the child alone. "Come, Fethra. I am finished here."

The girl's face lit up joyously upon seeing him. Without a second thought she jumped down from Arwen's lap and ran over to him. The queen was apparently forgotten, though she elegantly rose from her seat beside the windows. Legolas refused to look upon her, though he felt the pain of loving concern press through her steady gaze. Instead, he lifted Fethra into his arms, kissed her temple, and then turned. His legs carried him, for his heart had simply collapsed. Tears filled his eyes, but he would not cry. He would not cry!

"Legolas, wait!" cried Arwen.

But only the slamming of the door answered.


	13. Between Restoration and Remission

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BETWEEN RESTORATION AND REMISSION**

He was composed, or at least as composed as was possible. In the privacy of his room he had quickly bathed, hoping that some hot water and soap would cleanse him of the dirt covering his spirit as it could wash away grime and blood. Fethra had played in the outer room loudly as he had sunk into the tub, his body shaking and his mind vertiginous. There had been little time, and the urgency flogged his already wavering sense of calm. He hardly allowed himself any rest, emerging from the water far too quickly, drying, and dressing himself. As he had pulled a clean tunic and jerkin from his closets, he had stopped to look at the old bruises painting his side in hideous purples and blacks. Aragorn's words about the injury's failure to heal properly bothered him momentarily, but he had been too distracted to spend much more than a thought upon it. He had straightened himself as best as he could before taking Fethra's hand once more, forcing a smile upon his pale face for her sake. She had been harmed enough as it was; certainly he did not need to augment her despair.

Then his feet had carried him through the Citadel on a mission his mind barely registered. There were many people about this morning, but he was blind to their nods and deaf to their salutations. The part of his mind that had not succumbed to despair was frantically considering the few options left to him. He could not take Fethra to the Gateway, for he refused to subject her to any sort of danger, and such a convoluted and difficult situation was no place for a child. Yet he could not bring her back to Arwen. He doubted he had the bravery to face the queen's questions, and he was too humiliated and hurt to face Aragorn again. The memory of their argument alone was enough to cause his chest to clench in anger, and he forced himself to calm and forget. If he could only push this all aside! He realized that such a thing was utterly impossible, for the recollections of both the nightmare and the argument were fresh and too powerful upon his beaten mind. Exhaustion denied him the normal stoic control he exerted over his thoughts, and they ran on their own accord, torturing him with terror and fury. Curse Aragorn! He had gone to his friend for solace, for a chance to unburden this horrible weight upon his soul, for a hope to wipe away the stain covering his quivering spirit. How dare the man do this to him!

Legolas choked on his breath, pushing the thoughts from his mind. They were simply too distressing, and the press of the dream alone upon him was enough to torment. He would have to clear his head and focus. Too much was at stake. At least his feet had some sort of direction, it seemed, for they took him to a place he had not consciously chosen but for which he was grateful all the same.

The Elf sighed and steadied himself and raised a knuckle to knock upon the wooden door. Before he could, a small, scared voice cooed in his ear. "Leglass," Fethra whimpered, "are you leaving me again?"

Her plaintive tone only amplified his misery. He did not want to abandon her. At this juncture, she had become the only source of comfort for him. In this great, wide city, filled with many people gifted with amiable hearts, he had never felt so utterly alone and frightened. Yet responsibility was a powerful force. Legolas grimly remembered the tale he had told Fethra last night about the frivolous little wood Elf that shunned all obligation. How the little Elf had grown into a creature of decorum, tethered constantly to duty. Even in this, perhaps one of the darkest, most painful moments of his long life, he would serve those who needed him. "I must, little one. Remember what I told you last night about many people dying?" He held her wide gaze, and she nodded slightly, her fingers finding their way to her mouth. "I have to go protect them now, just as you asked."

His soft statements had the desired effect. Fethra nodded, pleased that he was doing these things for her. A child could hardly be expected to understand anything so grand as war councils or meetings that might decide the fate of entire nations. Then she sat up a bit in his arms and wetly kissed his cheek. He chuckled softly, in that brief instance the pain receding just enough for him to embrace the warmth of her love for him. Then he resumed knocking on the door.

It came open a moment later, and Éowyn stood there. Her blue eyes were confused a moment, her elegant face slack. Then she bowed a bit. "Good morning, Legolas," she said. Her eyes came upon his face, and he knew he had failed to hide his distress from her. Her expression tightened in concern. Though he was the least open with Éowyn, he knew the depths of her love for all ran deep, despite her unwillingness to show it. A few quiet moments back in Ithilien had proven her affection towards him as one of her husband's closest allies and a friend to her as well. He suddenly recalled a moment in Rohan years ago, after Aragorn had disappeared in battle and all had thought him dead. Legolas had held tight to his hope, unwilling to even entertain the fact that his closest friend might be lost to him forever. Because of his silent strength, she had sought him out when the shadows of the night became too heavy and the grief too great. They had stood in quiet for many minutes, watching the distant horizon from which Aragorn would have to approach should he ride to Helm's Deep. She had only spoke once, but he had never forgotten her words for in them the Elf and the woman had connected for a moment, bridging gaps between two yearning souls. _"I do not understand your kind, but I am glad you have come to defend us. The night is made warmer and lighter because of you."_

He shook himself from his reverie, realizing that Éowyn was staring at him. She explained, "My Lord has already gone to the field, if it is him who you seek."

Legolas looked down briefly, shame flooding his eyes. "Nay, my Lady, I must ask another favor of you. I am sorry to burden you – "

Éowyn understood immediately what he was asking of her and shook her head slightly. The smallest hint of a smile tugged at her thin lips. "It is no burden. Today I was meant to join Lady Ioreth in the Houses of Healing. If you do not mind, I will take her there with me."

Vaguely the Elf prince recalled hearing from Faramir once many nights ago that Éowyn had begun training as a healer, apparently inspired by her own experiences in the Houses of Healing after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. The Houses of Healing was one of the safest places in Minas Tirith, located deep within the city and heavily guarded. If an attack was launched against them, it would take their enemies a great deal of time to reach so far into the White City.

Legolas was satisfied with the arrangement. Tenderly he handed Fethra to Éowyn, and the Lady of Emyn Arnen accepted the child with a smile. "Hello, Miss Fethra. Do you remember me?" she asked quietly as the girl settled against her.

Fethra smiled broadly. Her behavior now was much improved over yesterday's tantrum. "Ehwyn!"

Éowyn laughed melodically. "That is right," she declared happily. She looked up from the child and saw Legolas still lingering in the open doorway. The smile slid slowly from her face, and Legolas' form tensed under her analytical gaze. Clear was the care upon her fair countenance for his lifeless eyes and worn appearance. But she did not question him. Perhaps it was the ghost of formality that still lingered between them that staunched the words she might have spoken. Perhaps she was just mindful of the dispositions of others, and she saw his silent need for solitude. In either case, he was grateful for her discretion. It shone in his eyes, so no words were required. Éowyn gave a quick, small smile and a curt nod, and Legolas backed away from the door as she closed it. The Elf felt an iota of relief at the short exchange. Inexplicable as it was, it eased his heart to know both that Fethra would be safe and that Éowyn still regarded him with the same detached respect.

Then he was moving, long legs propelling him gracefully and rapidly through the halls of the Citadel. His heart thudded uncharacteristically loudly in his chest, as if yearning to escape the torment cast upon him. He felt warm and cold at once, and his entire body ached mercilessly. He tried vehemently to convince himself that only duty and urgency drove his heated jog, but his aching spirit knew otherwise. People and places were a blur, and he did not care to look. He did not want to see their accusing glares, their wanton pity, their disbelief and disgust. He would not satisfy their depraved interest in his state! His eyes blankly centered upon the flying mesh of stone and carpet beneath his feet, and tensing his frame was all he could to keep a merciless shudder at bay. He ran faster, desperate to escape this prison of paranoia and pain. Vaguely he knew this monster to be of his own creation, and he also realized that reaching the exit to the Citadel would not be the relief he hoped.

Bright light washed over him and he winced. The intensity of the cheery sun mysteriously hurt his eyes, and disdainfully he winced at the throbbing that was coming to settle behind his brow. The Elf prince wasted not a single step or breath in acclimation, though, continuing in his race to the Gateway. A prayer beat in his mind, one that offered a bit of relief from the crushing weight of his despair. If he could only reach the others and concentrate on matters outside his memories, his distress would disappear. He was so sure of it!

Minutes passed during his flight through the city, but to the Elf they were little more than heartbeats. All the activity of morning business cluttered the streets, and the air hummed with conversation. Yet it was restrained this day, as though the people were hesitant to believe that peace still somehow existed. The muted pulse of words and whispers was laced with undeniable tension and fear. The prospect of war hung over the citizens, threatening destruction and desolation, and they were more than willing to simply allow higher matters to direct them in their fate. Hope and prayer sufficed for them, supplying security enough to allow a relatively common morning to follow after such an upsetting night. How easy for them! Legolas envied them the simplicity of their plight. They could trust in their lords to manage this convoluted and dangerous situation. No such luxury was afforded the lords themselves.

These thoughts darkened his mood further before he reached the Gateway. He descended the last road, following impatiently behind columns of troops designated to resume the guard after the present soldiers retired from the nightly watch. The nimble Elf picked his way through the lines gracefully, and the soldiers were surprised enough at Legolas' actions to allow him passage. Blue eyes were dark and viciously narrowed, and thin lips were compressed tightly in a grim line. Never before had they witnessed their king's closest ally and friend so deeply enraged and troubled, and none had the courage to block his way.

Finally Legolas reached the Gateway. The great portal stood open, permitting cool zephyrs to sweep across Pelennor Fields and enter the White City. The Elf scanned the scene quickly. A mixture of Gondorian militiamen and the White Guard stood stiffly about the entrance, distrust and apprehension clear upon their faces. On the other side of the gate was a great mess of Southrons, their dark cloaks billowing in the wind. Legolas stepped lightly through the crowd of soldiers, curiosity pushing aside his despair.

He spotted Gimli and began to stride towards him. The Dwarf stood proudly beside Faramir, his arms across over his broad chest. The breeze ruffled the mass of crinkly red hair atop his head. The rusty snarls fell down his shoulders, framing his round face, and Legolas was amused for a moment. It was one of the little things that made Gimli so endearing, he supposed. It was almost impossible to tell where all that hair stopped and all that beard began.

But the smile never reached his face. The stout warrior met his gaze, and for the first time in their friendship, Legolas averted his eyes in shame. He felt dizzy and weak with grief. Gimli's face fell. He had not missed the Elf's unusual action. "What troubles you, lad?"

And now it came to it. Perhaps it would not be such a terrible idea to tell Gimli of what had happened to him. Together they might both be able to convince Aragorn of the danger he sensed, of the terrible future that loomed before them should they make this alliance. But the sour voice of his hurt and doubt drowned out that of his hope. Aragorn, his closest and oldest friend, had not believed him. What made him think he could convince Gimli? Furthermore, the pain was beginning to sink into a soothing, dull oblivion, and he was not sure he wanted to again subject himself to it. He had been burned once in his attempt to warn others of the dark forces at work. Was he strong enough to again face the rejection?

A long, silent moment passed. To Legolas it seemed an eternity as he lingered uncertainly between truth and lie, between restoration and remission. Briefly he summoned forth some bravery, some endurance, and he thought he might be able to withstand the barrage of shame and sorrow admitting his experience to Gimli would entail. But courage was often fickle in the face of such personal adversity, and it left as easily as it had come to bolster his resolve, leaving him terrified of both what had been done to him and the prospect of living the horror once more.

"Elf?"

Gimli's anxious whisper drew him away from the threat of agonizing memory, and Legolas focused his blurry gaze upon his small friend. The Dwarf watched him with steely eyes, but within the dark orbs was thinly veiled worry. Legolas released a slow breath that felt shaky and weak to him and his companion. "It is nothing, friend Gimli."

The Dwarf's face flushed redder with annoyance. "You have said such words far too many times of late. You are not well, and it is plain for all to see. Will you never confide in me the substance of your distress?"

Legolas' heart panged in sorrowful guilt. He sighed gently, his chest aching with the movement. "One day I will. This I swear." He could whisper nothing more, but what he had left unsaid was clear enough. His reluctance to divulge his terror did not stem from Gimli but from himself. Now he simply had not the strength.

Those dark eyes flashed with a bit of annoyance a great deal of worry, but the response seemed to appease Gimli enough. The tone in Legolas' voice has subtly implored that the matter be dropped, and Gimli was neither so oblivious nor so cruel as to continue to torment the rattled Elf with questions.

The two turned as Faramir finished his quiet conversation with Aragorn and Éomer. The steward looked a bit haggard. His lean face was still unnaturally pale, but it was without the unhealthy waxen appearance of the day before. Faramir stood a bit hunched, as if maintaining a full posture was still too strenuous for his sore body. Yet vigor had returned to his eyes, claiming the gray orbs hungrily and filling them with life and energy. With resolution.

Aragorn turned his eyes upon Legolas, but the Elf looked away before the king could catch his gaze. The aversion was childish perhaps, but the archer felt terribly exposed before his friend and equally bitter about it. All that had been said was fresh upon his brutalized mind, and his soul was left quivering for the pain he felt. He barely noticed when Éomer began to speak. "I have just spoken with Ulpheth, the guard. The Emperor comes momentarily."

"I do not suppose he bothered to inform you as to the meaning behind all this?" Gimli asked angrily, folding his arms once again across his chest.

Éomer's hazel eyes were apologetic as he shook his head. A frustrated tone came to his voice. "Nay. I know little aside from what the sentinels have reported. Earlier this morning five riders approached their camp from the north. I assume they are the scouts Holis mentioned."

Gimli grunted to Éomer's assessment but said nothing else, settling into anxious thought. They group stood in silence briefly, apprehension and doubt claiming the moment, until Éomer spoke again. The young king turned his attention to Aragorn and dropped his tone to a private murmur. "Have you decided to form this alliance?"

Aragorn did not answer immediately. His eyes darted to Legolas, and the Elf found strength enough to hold his friend's gaze. For the first time in many years, Legolas could not detect Aragorn's emotions through a simple look. The ranger's face was masterfully impassive, and his gray eyes were void of all hint of thought or mood. This small shielded gesture was an affront to the Elf, and Legolas tightened his jaw. Maybe a thought came to him of repentance or shame, for surely he had placed Aragorn in a difficult position. In essence the Elf bid him to choose between their friendship and his kingly responsibility. But if such a thought came at all, it did not pierce the tough shroud of his fury. The Elf's face hardened and his gaze became an accusing glare.

Finally Aragorn looked away, color rising to his pale cheeks. His response was not what Legolas expected. "Nay," said the man quietly, "not as yet." No explanation was required, as his lords thought highly of his judgment and trusted him readily even if they did not understand. Still, Aragorn gave his reasons, as if to convince himself that he was delaying his decision for a cause besides Legolas'. "I wish to know more of what they propose to offer us before agreeing to any contract."

It was reasonable enough. The heat of Legolas' rage cooled somewhat in relief. At least Aragorn had not rashly committed them to this allegiance. There might yet be time to understand the warning he had received and act appropriately upon it.

The group spoke no more, though, for one of the gate guards bellowed, "The Lord Emperor comes!" The wall of dark Southrons parted, and along the path walked Holis. He appeared as he had the previous night, save in the light of day he seemed somehow luminous and even more powerful. This aura of strength and grace he exuded was nearly palpable, yet it remained gentle and unobtrusive, resembling more a soft, cooling breeze than a vicious, ripping gale. Dark eyes quickly looked about the faces of those gathered again, and Legolas stiffened as they fell upon him. Despite his fear, he searched Holis' gaze ardently for some sort of sign that the assault had been of the other's making, that the horror done against him was of this man's desire. Certainly there would be some sign of power, of lust, of sadistic and gleeful control… but there was naught of the sort. Holis blinked and offered Legolas a small smile as he approached. That gentle act stunned the Elf, and cold fear and doubt assailed his already agitated body. Holis' pleasant demeanor was quite disarming, his eyes void of threat of malice or arrogance. He seemed genuinely friendly, and Legolas looked away, sorely confused. Perhaps the Haradrim meant them no harm. Perhaps whatever had come to him during the night had merely been a dream… _How could that be? If it was… That would mean… Please, I cannot bear this! What is wrong with me?_

The emperor began to speak. Legolas was so distraught he could barely follow the conversation. "I apologize for my tardiness, my Lords, but conferring with my informants took longer than I expected."

Aragorn dismissed the other's concerns. "It is no bother," said he easily. "We readily accept whatever information you offer."

Holis' face grew taut and stony with obvious anger and dismay. "Then I shall quickly deliver it to you," he declared evenly. "It appears that our enemy moves against the region of Lebennin. They turn north across the plains. Their target is Emyn Nimsîr."

Faramir and Éomer shared a confused glance. Legolas empathized with them. That hamlet was of no strategic importance. Nestled at the juncture of the Rivers Celos and Sirith, it was mostly inaccessible. The White Mountains guarded the village from the northwest, blocking any easy route to Minas Tirith. Legolas knew little of the tiny town. It was sparsely populated with mostly farming families. Attacking it made hardly any sense.

Holis seemed to sense their doubt. "I do not know to what purpose they now work. This news alarmed and perplexed me as well. Is this establishment heavily populated?"

Aragorn winced slightly, his eyes distant in thought. "No, not heavily. It is primarily an agricultural community."

The emperor's glazed eyes gained a sharper glint. "I see no logic in it, my Lord."

Faramir shook his head. "This is more than a simple attack. Emyn Nimsîr is a secluded place with no easy entrance or exit. The rivers are surrounded by marsh and swampland. The mountains to the north are impassible. The plains are damp and heavily cultivated, even at this time of year. The land is flat and difficult to defend. It is a noose, and a tight one at that. They will trap us should we send aid to its people."

The words were heavy and rang with unwanted truth. The ambush at Cair Andros hung in the air like a ghost, drawing doubt and anger from those present. "Cowards," hissed Gimli, loathing in his eyes and voice. "Would they rather play these ugly games than face us truly?"

Holis' eyes glowed in a slow-burning ire. "It appears so, Master Dwarf. As I said, they honor no rules, no boundaries of honorable engagement. They seek to slaughter and win, and they do so recklessly and relentlessly. We recognize them no longer as part of our nation for their crimes against yours."

Éomer's eyes settled upon Holis. Legolas saw within them a sense of trust, of gratitude for offering to them this information. "How many men do they move toward Emyn Nimsîr?" he questioned.

"A thousand at least." Holis' response was soft, but its diminished volume did not hide the immensity of its implication. Legolas glanced to Faramir, and the steward's face seemed more ashen and less certain. "I cannot be certain if this army represents their entire force. I do not even know if these are the same men that ravaged your other towns. I am sorry."

It was silent for a moment. _A thousand men…_ Legolas thought, his eyes narrowed. For the moment the pain of his own problems fled, and he was overcome with worry and hate. Worry for the small community now threatened. Hatred for the men who aimed to destroy it. He imagined the destruction, the massacre, and his blood boiled in rage. _A thousand men against a small village of barely a hundred! Those bloodthirsty savages! To make an example of innocents…_ Such a crime must not be allowed to occur.

Faramir finally released a slow breath. He had dipped his gaze to the ground in the empty minutes before in contemplation, but now he looked up. His eyes fell to Aragorn. "They will all be destroyed unless we act." The steward's jaw tightened; Legolas watched the muscles of his face dance in unrestrained wrath. "The village will have no warning. We cannot let these monsters roam our lands and turn our citizens to messages and symbols! We must stop this."

"Aye," Gimli rumbled from beside the Elf. "Aragorn, now is the time to face them. If we move quickly, we can reinforce the town and defend them from the onslaught. Time and stealth are two great advantages. The Easterlings mayhap expect only a small militia will counter them. It is they who will be ambushed!"

Éomer was quick to add his own affirmations. "My Lord, we must not linger. If we do not act now, we will loose this chance!" He made no move to mask the urgency in his voice, and its effect was not lost on Aragorn.

The king shifted his stance. He was greatly troubled, for there was no easy answer. Mistrust still lingered, but would it be strong enough to outweigh the importance of stopping the Easterlings' terrorism? Then his eyes focused upon Holis. "How much time do we have?" he asked evenly.

A helpless, worried expression creased the emperor's smooth brow. "Little, my Lord, unfortunately. The scouts were unable to ascertain when the Easterlings planned to make their move, but I must imagine that they will do so soon. According to their report, this force is located far to the south. They will have to march north. If we leave now, we can reach this town before they do. Only swift action ensures us dominion."

The argument was alluring. To finally face the enemy, to stop this foray of suffering and fear, to end this now…

Aragorn's face was blank, his eyes cool and hard, but Legolas saw his desires. He as well wished for this to stop. He as well wanted to take control of the situation and avenge those who had suffered. But his ambition was not without restraint. "Are these informants of yours trustworthy?"

It was an outright test of test Holis' sincerity. But only hurt and a bit of sadness flashed in Holis' eyes. He did not quickly brush aside Aragorn's question, though, nor did his own tone reflect any anger or resentment. "Of course. I would not speak to you otherwise." The thick rope of braided hair slithered along the red of his cloak like a snake. "We stand beside you, King Elessar, in whatever you decide. I desire an end to their aggressions as much as you do."

A statement as such put immediate pressure upon Aragorn to choose their course of action. The king was still, tense. Legolas could feel the waves of anger and doubt from his friend. But the archer looked away. He would not be part of this decision. If this moment would later be the basis of their downfall, he had no wish to commit himself to it. All eyes were upon the king save his, for he had closed them and swallowed his hurt. He felt terribly sick in mind and body.

"We will act, then," Aragorn finally decreed. Gimli smiled broadly, very pleased with his friend's decision. Éomer and Faramir exchanged a glance that was both relieved and excited. And Legolas simply looked down, fighting to keep the misty visions and haunting jeers from swarming his meager sense of self. _I did not want this… Somebody help me…_

Holis was speaking. It took a taxing act of sheer will for the Elf to concentrate on the other. "Then we will aid you. I can offer five hundred men and ample supply. Is this sufficient to your cause?" Amity flooded the other's words, suggesting that if the proposal was not to Aragorn's liking, he would do whatever was in his power to remedy the king's disapproval.

But Aragorn only lifted his chin. "It is. Thank you," said the king quietly.

"Is one hour time enough to prepare?"

"It is."

"Then it is done. I will leave you to your work. Send word when you are ready." Aragorn nodded curtly, holding Holis' gaze for a moment as though he was searching one last time for hints of deception. However, there were clearly none to be found, and emperor turned. His retinue followed him from the gate, Ulpheth bowing lowly to the Lords of Gondor before trailing after his liege. The sound of orders filled the morning air, and though the language was unfamiliar, the sobriety and import of it was not.

When Holis was no longer in sight, Aragorn turned to Faramir. "How many men can we spare for this task?" he asked the steward.

Faramir's eyes grew distant with a quick calculation. "While maintaining heightened defense of the city? Three hundred perhaps," answered the man thoughtfully.

"Will that be enough?" inquired Gimli softly.

"With the aid of Rohan," clarified Éomer proudly. The young king leaned closer into the small circle they had formed. "Two hundred Riders in this city are at your disposal, Aragorn. You need only say the word."

The king nodded to Éomer's offering. He clenched his jaw, his gray eyes hard and vehement. "Good, then. We will leave immediately."

A flurry of sputtering denials came from behind them. "No, sire!" cried one of Aragorn's advisers. The man was balding, his form wiry and scrawny. Legolas was too distracted to remember his name. "You cannot leave the city on such a perilous venture. You have no heir, my Lord, no heir and without you, we have no king."

"That is nonsense," growled Aragorn threateningly, his glare piercing.

The man nearly whimpered under the fury of his king's ire, but he held his ground. "Please, sire, need I remind you that these Easterlings nearly assassinated you the night before last? You cannot leave the protection of Minas Tirith! On the field of war you are too conspicuous a target!" Aragorn's expression became savagely enraged. The man cowered like a mouse before a frustrated cat, but he held his ground. "Gondor has been burned before by allowing her king to foolishly partake in dangerous ventures. Legislation was designed to prevent such a disaster from happening again. My Lord, you are needed _here_. The law forbids you to leave the city needlessly when there is no heir!"

"Then the law can be rewritten!" bellowed Aragorn angrily. The color fled the adviser's face as the sight of the enraged king, and the man stepped back frightfully. Legolas watched Aragorn's chest heave with breath. Such vexation was this to a man who prided himself on his own strength and prowess. The thought of remaining in the shadows while others fought was by no means appealing, and the Elf understood his friend's irritation. The hurt rose up in Legolas' throat like burning bile, though, and he averted his gaze once more. His friend's words rang in his ears. _"I am_ king, _Legolas. I cannot make such a grand decision based on an unsubstantiated dream!" Indeed, Aragorn, but you also cannot have this both ways._

Eventually Aragorn released a hot, short breath and turned away. His taut form relaxed a bit. A fretful silence endured, for all were a bit shocked at their normally strong and composed ruler's loss of temper. "Peace, Aragorn," Éomer said quietly. "I can lead this campaign."

Aragorn's shoulders slumped ever so slightly as Éomer laid a hand upon them. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Aye, Éomer. Forgive me my outburst. This entire situation… tries my patience."

"Your apologies are not needed," Gimli murmured compassionately, reaching up to grasp the king's arm. "You bear a difficult burden." Aragorn laid his hand over the Dwarf's own and squeezed it gratefully.

Faramir stepped forward. "I will command our forces in the field, my King," announced the steward. The wind brushed his hair across his face, and his eyes shone in angry determination.

Éomer looked to Faramir. "Are you well enough for such a task, brother?"

Faramir only nodded. He stood tall and proud. It was not a question of health or inclination, but rather of duty to those that had died under his lead in the last skirmish. It was clear from the strength he exuded that no amount of pleading or reason would alter Faramir's mindset. The king was bound by law to remain protected, but the steward was called by law to protect. Nothing would cause Faramir to stray from such an important responsibility, least of all the whims of a healing body.

The king of Rohan looked away from the steward. Legolas felt eyes settle upon him, and the Elf pulled himself from painful reverie to pay Éomer his attention. "And what say you, Legolas? Will you ride with us?"

The war of opposing thoughts and insufferable memory disappeared. Suddenly there was silence, deep and heavy, and Legolas was left reeling. All eyes had come to him, waiting expectantly for his verdict. He felt dizzy with confusion, the emptiness within was pecking at his composure. A breath later he managed to regain his tongue. "The Elves of Ithilien stand beside Gondor," he murmured softly, "as we always have."

How rotten the words sounded! How weak his voice was! Aragorn's gaze fell to Legolas, and within the gray orbs was now only grief and heart-pounding worry. The king opened his mouth to perhaps object, but Legolas fixed him with a silencing glare, and Aragorn abandoned whatever he had wanted to say. The man would not be so low or cruel as to insult Legolas' pride before their peers. A lasting emptiness commandeered the moment after. Whatever strength had driven Legolas in his angry gaze all but deserted, and the Elf was compelled to again look away. Shame, fetid and black, coated his feebly beating heart. The wind came to him, but it felt like probing fingers and cold lips.

Éomer had not been oblivious to the awkward moment, for his strength faltered and he wavered in his purpose. But then the young rider regained himself. He spoke words that were meant to add finality to the moment, though to Legolas they were little but an empty promise of the inevitable future. "Well, then. If it is war they want, then war we shall make. Let us go, for there is little time to spare."

* * *

To Legolas, the following hour hardly existed. Time lost all meaning as he rushed to prepare his people for the imminent battle. Under his command he had roughly seventy-five Elves, most of whom were archers. In the armory he had requisitioned as many arrows as possible. The supply he had procured was not of the high quality of Elven fletch, but their making was satisfactory enough and there was no time to alter them at any rate. The Elves were eager enough to hear his commands, for many of them were perplexed as to the cause behind both their summoning and this new battle. Legolas had explained to them the nature of the fight ahead of them in a clear, emotionless voice. Though they had remained stoic and quiet, as was the way with their kind, the Elf prince had noticed the subtle signs of anxiety and excitement. Their morale was high, at least, and that was an encouraging thought.

Valandil had approached him soon after, inquiring as to his well-being. As they were unable to hide their emotions from him, he was equally incapable of masking his distress. The young Elf's eyes had been warm and open, and Legolas had nearly faltered with the friendly questions. It was clear from his face how much Valandil revered him, and somehow Legolas felt that divulging the substance of his upset would not besmirch the other's view of him. Thus the allure to bear his hurt had once more been great, but he had not heeded the call of crying heart. It would do little good to burden the others before such an important battle. He was their lord above all else, and lords never faltered or appeared weak or lost. At least, those were the things his father had taught him.

Time had developed a strange relationship with him. Around his torment he had constructed a barricade, a wall composed of duty and denial that caged the memories and protected his mind from their barrage. As long as it remained strong, the minutes were fleeting. Much had to be done and he rushed through errands, concentrating on his tasks and not his turmoil. Then moments became breaths and beats, words and steps, and there were simply not enough of them. When that wall floundered, however, or when distraction led to listless and exhausted mental wandering, minutes suddenly grew to hours and hours to an eternity. He would drift in a sea of sorrow and spite, carried only by the pulse of the memories that beat about his mind. The more tired he became, the harder it was to stave off its incursion. And the grotesque mutilation of time left him disoriented. It was amazing and sad that such a thing could so easily rattle an Elf of his breeding and experience. It was almost as if all his long life had disappeared, and all that remained was the abuse and rape of the night before. _"You are young for an Elf, barely wiser than a child. You have much left to learn about this world and yourself. Do not overestimate the strength of a body. Without the power of a good, wise will, it is but a reed ripping about precariously in a violent gale. Should the spirit be stained, this substance of life, immortal or not, will not easily recover. The flesh dies without the spirit."_ Lord Elrond had spoken those words to him once in Rivendell many years ago when he had asked of his wife's departure from Middle Earth. Arwen's mother, Celebrían, had suffered horribly at the hands of Orcs, and she had fled, seeking peace in Valinor. Now thinking on that awarded him no consolation. His soul did feel stained, putrefied, destroyed. And his body ached with pangs he had never before felt. How was he to combat this? Was there no hope for him now on these shores? If he stayed, would he fade?

_Go now. Leave this place and find your rest. There is nothing for you here._

But he brushed aside these unsettling thoughts. They had no place in the mind of a warrior or a lord. And those were the things he must be. Those were the roles required of him. That was what Aragorn needed of him, and no matter how angered he was with his dear friend, he would not fail him.

Now he entered the Houses of Healing. The hour was nearly gone. His feet had carried him here, for his mind had once again slipped away into a morass of vacillation and reminiscence. He wondered at the lost hour and his breaking heart. Vaguely he knew why he had come to this place. To consider the implications of it left him hurting, but there was no time to do anything else.

Lady Ioreth spotted him immediately. She held his gaze and immediately understood his intentions. Word had quickly spread all over Minas Tirith that a great host was departing to face the enemy. Soldiers had returned to homes and loved ones to bid a stoic farewell, even though all knew with undeniable finality that some, perhaps many, of them would not return. He was doing the same. "She is here, my Prince, playing with my others." The woman sighed gently. "I will keep her here with me in your absence. No harm will come to her, this I swear to you." She held his gaze a moment, searching his acceptance. When she had it, she smiled weakly. "Shall I fetch her for you?"

Legolas' voice failed him suddenly, so he numbly nodded. Ioreth's eyes flashed sadly and sympathetically before she left with a swish of her skirts. The Elf prince stood, and time moved around him. He was misplaced in the unending rush of seconds and minutes and hours to eternity. Immortality granted him such exclusion, such superiority. But he was among men, men that knew the suffering of death as something expected and innate to existence, men that passed from life as easily and as simply as they came into it. In this place, within these walls, there was a constant struggle for survival, and it was so _common_, so utterly intrinsic to everything that was mortality, that Legolas felt terribly wrong to stand and watch and pass judgment on such a thing. It was not his to understand. It never would be.

There was a clamor of noise and talking that distracted him. Fethra stampeded into the entrance and, upon seeing him, her face broke in a gleeful smile. She ran to him. "Leglass! Leglass!"

The pain of the attack and of his thoughts fell away as he knelt gracefully and embraced her. He would not let the substance of their making divide them. "My little one," he said softly. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he hugged her tightly. The pulse of her tiny heart against his was powerful and soothing. Her presence was cool and refreshing. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the peace she gave him, his spirit quivering in grateful relief. At that moment he regretted so much. He regretted being too strong and not strong enough. He regretted his pride, his pain, his duty. He hated the choices he had made. Perhaps there was some place in this world to which they could escape where he could cherish this serenity. Where pain and fear and shame could never find him. As his battered heart embraced this moment, he wished he could take back his vow of aid and stay behind with Fethra. He wished time would shift and stretch again, turning this sweet moment into a treasured eternity. He wished nothing would part them.

But this could not last forever. He opened his eyes. "I must leave you."

She pulled back. Her face fell drastically. Legolas lifted her chin with his finger. "Why, Leglass?" she whispered.

He gave her a weak smile. "You made me promise, remember?" he said softly. "I swore to protect the good people, so nobody else would die." The logic sounded right and strong to him, and it reassured him of his place. "I cannot break that promise."

Wide green eyes twinkled. "You're leaving to fight the bad men who hurt Momma?"

"Yes."

Fethra did not smile, but nor did she frown. It was as if she had all along expected such an act from him. Her adoration for him shone in her gaze as she watched his face. "Will you come back?" she asked, her voice mostly a wistful whisper.

He forced a smile to grace his lips. "Of course," he vowed.

The child was still for a moment, as if wondering at what he had sworn to her. A child's mind, though inexperienced and naïve at the workings of life, was a powerful thing. Simplicity was a treasure of youth. She did not comprehend the gravity of what he knew, of what he felt, of what had been done to him and what he would do in turn. But she did not need to understand to offer him her heart. Small fingers dug through her dress and pulled the necklace she bore forth from the lavender cloth. She held it up, looking at it for a moment, before innocently turning her gaze back to Legolas. "Papa took this with him when he went to stop the bad men," she said softly. "You can take it, too."

Shock mulled over him as he eyed the glowing red stone of the pendant. Fethra stepped closer to him, struggling to free the tangled silver chain from the folds of her clothes. When she could not get it loose, Legolas assisted her, pulling the long chain from her collar. Then the little girl held it. It glimmered in the morning light beautifully as it dangled from the chain. No words were shared as she dropped it over his head, slipping the small trinket down his hair. A moment later it rested against his gray jerkin, peacefully glowing over his heart.

Legolas stared at it in a mixture of wonderment and confusion until Fethra grabbed his face. Then, sobbing, she launched herself into his arms and buried her face into his shoulder. He rubbed her soothingly. "You have to come back. I don't want to be alone. You're my papa now, Leglass."

The Elf leaned back a bit, peeling her from him gently so that he could look into her face. "I am not your father, Fethra," he declared softly but firmly. "I would not want to replace him. But I _do_ love you and I _will_ come back." She sniffled, reassured by the smile he offered. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs, cupping her round face with his hands. "Now, mind Lady Ioreth. She will take care of you."

She nodded, fearful and wide-eyed. Then Legolas kissed her brow and hugged her tightly one last time. "Be safe, my child," he whispered in Elvish into the curly mop of her hair. He did not want to let go. He did not want to leave her! A million worries, a million fears and hopes and doubts clouded his thoughts, and he tightened his grasp. She had become so important to him that he could not bear to release her.

But he did. Fethra's lips pressed his cheek wetly before she pulled away and tumbled back into the full skirts of Ioreth. The healer's hand came to rest upon the crown of the child's head, and she offered the Elf a reassuring and knowing nod.

Legolas felt cold and empty as he slowly stood. His body creaked and ached in protest, yet he ignored the pain and embraced a bit of hope. Fethra peeked from behind a wall of Ioreth's skirt. "Bye, Leglass," she said.

He smiled and swallowed the lump hurting his throat. "Farewell, Fethra."

* * *

The entrance to the Gateway was chaotic. All about men and Elves were preparing for the distant encounter that awaited them. Horses were everywhere, neighing and whickering anxiously, for the animals sensed clearly the trepidation saturating the cool air. Troops assumed positions for a march, the men tensely exchanging worried glances and whispered words with their neighbors. A great cacophony shattered the peace of the morning, alerting all to the preparations for war. Control over the frenzied motion and exhilarated noise was precarious. More than that, faith that this endeavor would put an end to all they feared was fleeting.

Legolas pushed his way through the assembly, stepping quickly and lightly. His eyes scanned the area, and with little difficulty he located his company. The Elf briskly walked to them. His quiver and bow felt unusually heavy upon his back, but he was comforted by their familiar weight. Fethra's necklace he had stuffed beneath his jerkin and tunic so that it rested against his bare chest. It felt warm and pleasant to his skin.

Valandil spotted him. The Elf held his mount by the reins. "All is ready, my Lord," reported the Elf. His eyes danced in enthusiasm.

"Good," Legolas responded. "I have learned from King Éomer that we are to guard the rear of the army. Inform everyone, please."

Valandil nodded curtly. He face tightened with annoyed excitement. "Perhaps we are better placed, Legolas. Archers are ineffective from the back lines." A tinge of resentment had found its way into the other's voice.

Legolas only offered a disarming, small smile. "I am sure the king has his reasons. For now, let us just follow his requests."

The younger Elf flushed a bit in embarrassment. Had Legolas been not so weary and pained, perhaps he would have thought it amusing. "Aye." Then Valandil mounted his horse gracefully and relayed his lord's commands to the Elves that stood ready beside the rows and rows of Gondor's soldiers.

Velathir came to him as well. The peaceful Elf bowed to his lord, the breeze catching his dark hair. "My Lord, is there anything you wish of me in your absence?" he asked humbly.

Legolas nodded. "Have the rest of the colony evacuated. Take what supplies we can. Destroy what we cannot," he ordered quietly. The thought dampened his already low spirits. Commanding the retreat of one's own establishment was shameful indeed, and his heart strained that it not be so. All for which they had worked… But he was not so unfamiliar with losing ground. His father had dealt with the pain of retreat for centuries. "Be quick about it as well. I will have no one die for a collection of rock and dreams."

"Of course, my Lord." They stood in silence a moment. Then Velathir laid a fist over his heart. His head bowed, he opened his hand to his lord in a timeless gesture of respect and hope. "May the Valar protect you, Prince Legolas," he said softly in Elvish.

Heartened again, the archer returned the salute. "Only if they guard you as well, my friend." Velathir smiled warmly before bowing again and taking his leave. The Elf prince stood a moment longer until he could no longer distinguish the tall Elf from the crowd of people. Then he continued, seeing Gimli and Arod waiting patiently a bit closer to the Gateway. He drew a deep breath to steady himself, embracing the cold apathy that was slowly claiming him. He did not want to feel any more. He could make so little sense of what he thought that indifference seemed the safest course. He readily welcomed the calming oblivion.

The Dwarf grunted as he neared. "You are late, Master Elf," he declared boisterously.

The Elf offered a wan smile. "Nay, you are early, Master Dwarf."

The two held a stony look for a brief moment. But then Gimli could further this farce no longer and smiled. "This beast of yours is as jittery as a colt! Speak some sense to him; he tries upon my nerves."

Legolas shook his head, a tiny smile creeping to his pale face at Gimli's stubbornness. Once, years ago, he had told Gimli that it was the Dwarf's presence that so riled Arod, and if the stout warrior only relaxed about the gentle beast himself, all would be well. The Elf doubted the day in which Gimli and Arod made their peace would ever come. He laid a hand on Arod's muzzle, staring into the stallion's dark, depthless eyes. Legolas saw what others did not. His other came to stroke the horse's neck fondly, assuring the animal that he was well. Arod was tense, but he calmed immediately under his master's touch.

"I will never understand your love for such a foul beast," mused Gimli as Legolas leaned tiredly into Arod's chest. The horse dipped his head upon the Elf's shoulder as he stroked his mane. "A simple touch can seduce the most flippant and fickle animal into obedience. It is not natural."

Legolas smiled thinly. "Neither is fashioning great halls from stone and rock with a pick and mortar. You reshape the face of the world to your own silly whims. What could be more unnatural than that?"

The words would have been scathing to a stranger's ears, but Gimli only grunted and shook his head, leaning upon the shaft of his axe. "Yet you live in such places, do you not, Elf? Do you not thank the stone when it blocks the bitter wind or shelters you from the drenching rain? Do you not appreciate its strength when you are weary and in need of security?"

_More than you can know, Gimli._ "Point taken," remarked Legolas. The banter eased the weight upon him, and he was glad for it.

There was sound behind them. Aragorn, Faramir, and Éomer approached. Éomer was garbed in plate mail, the crest of Rohan etched proudly into the chest plate. His sword rattled at his hip as he walked, his helmet tucked under one arm. The steward was adorned in lighter chain mail, and a white surcoat covered his armor. He bore no quiver or bow, carrying only his long sword and a dagger strapped to his belt.

Aragorn nodded to Legolas. The two friends held each other's eyes for a moment, searching for forgiveness, for acceptance, for some sort of absolution to ease the wounds they had themselves inflicted.

Éomer glanced between the Elf and the Dwarf. "Is all in order, Legolas?"

The prince turned from Aragorn, abandoning his search for peace, and answered the king of Rohan. "Yes. We are ready."

Éomer settled his helmet atop his head. The silver shone brightly in the morning sun, the metal without crack or blemish. The head of a horse garnished the front of the piece, and long flaxen horsehair extended from the pinnacle of the helmet like a mane. "Good. Let us be off." The king turned and headed to the group of mounted men crowding the left of the street.

A moment later a call went through the mass of warriors, and trumpets sounded. Faramir grasped Aragorn brotherly on the arm before turning and heading towards his own legion. Legolas grabbed Gimli's arm and gave him a boost, helping the grumbling Dwarf atop Arod. The skittish beast appeared to want to bolt and topple the unsteady creature atop him, but the horse remained still as Gimli settled.

Then the Elf methodically went about tightening their saddlebags and securing their supplies. Yet he felt Aragorn's gaze strongly upon him, boring into his back as though it was a ramming force. Legolas' gooseflesh prickled. He could feel Aragorn imploring him to see reason, to stay behind, to not fight like this. Yet the man would not speak. The cold silence endured, neither friend willing to concede. Both hearts yearned for restoration of brotherly love, of their connection, but neither could submit to defeat. Pride was simply too strong an obstacle.

Time ran out. They were moving. Aragorn grabbed Legolas' shoulder and pulled the Elf around. Before Legolas could react the man swept his friend into a tight embrace. It was the release they needed, and the archer succumbed, dismissing hi screaming, enraged ego and wrapping his arms about Aragorn. "Be safe," Aragorn whispered in his ear.

The king parted quickly and drew a short, weak breath that wavered with a stifled sob. The man turned watery eyes to Gimli, grasping the Dwarf's knee firmly and nodding. After that, Aragorn turned and left them.

Legolas stood still for what seemed to him to be forever. The wind moved about his tingling body. He could feel each tiny hair on his skin twitch. Each beat of his heart was loud, each breath cold and stabbing. His body grew heavy, and his stomach clenched painfully. Grief threatened him, but he would not give it reign. The dream prodded at his consciousness once more, taking sadistic advantage of his weakened state. He refused to pay its insistences his attention. He was no prisoner to fear! _I will fight this because I must! I will defeat this!_

"Legolas?"

The Elf turned at Gimli's concerned voice. He shook his head as if to clear it and sucked in a deep breath. The Dwarf's worried face relaxed a bit as the light returned to Legolas' eyes. Gimli said, "Let us be off else we be left behind."

The great, loud rhythm of marching feet filled the air. Horses cried and men shouted. The army was passing them, heading through the gaping Gateway where the Haradrim waited. Legolas swallowed his nausea and pulled himself gingerly atop Arod. The animal whickered and turned.

And then they too were moving, following the companies of Gondor and Rohan and Harad. Banners flew high with pride as they parted with the gates. The battle campaign was beginning. Across the field an army was forming. Like a rainbow the standards meshed. The golden serpent in its bed of red. The green flag of the House of Eorl, upon which a silver horse leapt over interlocking spears. The white banner of the House of the Stewards, glistening like pure clouds with a new addition of three black stars and an Elvish calling. The White Tree billowing on a field of sable, its own series of astral heraldry crowning the pride of all Gondor. The leaf of the House of Thranduil entwined with the sunshaped flower _elanor_ of Lothlórien and seated upon the blues and yellows of Imladris, all Elvish nations blending in a new standard for Ithilien.

A great host coming together in alliance and marching to meet its destiny.


	14. A Final Charge

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: A FINAL CHARGE**

Legolas watched as the flags struggled in the wind. Tethered to their posts, they wriggled and writhed against their bindings, as if desperate to escape an inevitable dark fate. But the ties were too tight, and destiny was unavoidable. The earth and its forces oft knew more of the future than did the minds of mortals or even Elves. Were these breezes seeking to save them from destruction, to caution them against brash action, to warn them from ignorance and assumption? The Elf knew naught save this: the banners on all sides ripped and screamed in the wind.

He looked down with a weary sigh. The sun was beginning to set; the better part of two days had escaped them during their march. Nearly thirty leagues lay between Minas Tirith and Emyn Nimsîr, the distance made greater by the obstacle of the White Mountains. They had rounded the edge of the chain, and from there they had adopted a westerly path across the wide, rolling plains of Lossarnach. Despite the size of their force, they moved quite quickly along the flat ground, for the fields were gentle to their feet and easy to traverse. However, their road had turned malevolent upon reaching the Sirith. The river was not terribly wide or deep, but it was prone to flooding its surrounding lowlands. The once amiable and firm fields turned to giant plots of muddy grass, and their pace had slowed considerably. The anticipation that had previously served to lift morale and provide the troops energy had utterly vacated them in the face of such damp drudgery, and both man and horse had wearied quickly. There had only been one small bridge across the shallow river. The mounted warriors could ford the expanse easily enough, but the troops were less fortunate and only through much waiting and planning could they all cross the river. The oliphaunts had lumbered over the wetlands last, their massive forms shaking the ground with the force of each step. The entire matter had taken painful hours, and each man and Elf had felt the press of time upon them as they anxiously waited for the transit's completion.

Still, despite these impediments, they had reached Emyn Nimsîr without much incident. Now the allied forces rested in the land between the rivers while their lords planned and schemed for the upcoming battle.

Gimli cursed beneath his breath as he wiped the mud caked upon his boots onto the blades of long, green grass that surrounded them. "Confound this land!" The Dwarf's face reddened in irritation. "It is more a swamp than a field!" Legolas said nothing to the comment, but the Elf sympathized with his friend's annoyance. Blue eyes swept their surroundings with much disdain and doubt. This land would be difficult to defend. Though the ground here was relatively firm beneath them, the terrain became a morass that sucked at feet and hindered movement the closer one moved towards the water. Reports from the opposite shore, where the River Celos made its path, were much the same, to the chagrin of all. Guarding the banks would be a sore and vicious task. Legolas sighed wearily. Though Éomer had not yet said as much, the Elf knew without a doubt that that formation would be assumed. The two rivers joined together some miles south, forming a wider, impassable stretch of water. If the Easterlings were to come, they would do so from the east or west. The success of the defense of the two rivers and their shoddy bridges would mean victory or defeat. Triumph or annihilation. The Elf prince did not enjoy the thought.

Emyn Nimsîr itself was nestled perhaps a league north. The great, tall White Mountains glowed in the afternoon sun, their ageless stone appearing a soothing blue in the haze. They were distant sentinels, rising powerfully and majestically from the earth, shielding the small hamlet in an embrace of impenetrable splendor and grandeur. The snowy peaks continued as far as his eye could see in both directions, marching east to join the great Misty Mountains, reaching west as well to extend their protection to Minas Tirith. The land swept down from their base, good and fertile, and upon it the tiny farming village rested. Hardly two hundred people lived within its boundaries, and they were simple folk who had never before been touched by war. Past unrests had left them blessedly ignorant of the workings outside their little world. Thus, they had been quite shocked and frightened to see the massive army marching upon their peaceful farms and estates. Not long before had Éomer and Faramir ridden into the town proper to explain to the denizens the nature of the situation. Ignorance begot prejudice and indignation, for the town leaders were less than willing to aid in the defense of their home. Apparently they believed that Gondor's forces would lead to them the enemy; battle upon their lands would only destroy crops and hurt the fertility of their farms. They did not want to be involved in this conflict, fearing that perhaps in the face of such a harsh reality that their previous peaceful way of life could never again be restored. Legolas could not help but understand their worries. Nothing destroyed innocence so irreparably well as the throes and toils of war.

Even so, for the denizens of Emyn Nimsîr, there was no choice. Farmers and stable boys became soldiers, and the town reluctantly offered what it could in terms of defense. Legolas had watched them don old, rusty armor and grasp poorly made swords and spears with shaking fingers. Fear had glowed in their eyes, and the Elf was reminded of the eve of the Battle of Helm's Deep. There as well he had felt a terrible pang of despair for the sake of these innocent people. He knew deep inside the dark recesses of his heart that, should the Easterlings reach the town, it would fall quickly and easily to their enemy's swift and brutal whims. He hoped it would not come to that.

_Perhaps it will not._ The Elf allowed himself this small speck of hope. Despite doubts and reservations, the soldiers of Harad and Gondor appeared to be cooperating nicely. Under strict orders from their emperor, the Southrons were more than willing to abide by the authority of the Lords of Gondor. Holis himself had not accompanied their expedition, deferring to a custom of the Harad's government that was similar to the law that prevented Aragorn from leading this campaign. Still, the Haradrim acted as though their ruler oversaw every moment, and the company of Gondor was quite impressed with the power of Holis' words and the strength of his command. Noticeably absent as well from the ranks was Imrahil and his men. Only when they were some distance from Minas Tirith did Legolas' distressed mind realize the Prince of Dol Amroth had not appeared earlier at the Gateway despite Aragorn's summons. He had subsequently questioned Faramir about the matter during their journey and had been dismayed to learn that late during the night a messenger bird had reached the White City bearing word that Imrahil's wife had taken ill. The ambush upon Imrahil's forces had occurred approximately half-way between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, and the prince had apparently sent one of the four surviving riders back to his manor bearing his son's body while he and his younger child continued to the White City. Their arrival had sent the Lady of Dol Amroth into a fit of fever and grief. Legolas knew very little of her, but he had heard in gossip once or twice that she was hale of neither heart nor body, and she became sick easily and without warning. Imrahil had, with the king's permission, departed Minas Tirith upon the dawn, intending to race back to Dol Amroth and tend to his ailing lady. He had left Prince Amrothos to represent him in Aragorn's court until he was able to return. Guilt had plagued Legolas with Faramir's explanation. He had been so concerned with his own plights that the suffering of others had become a distant matter. Poor Imrahil! To lose a son and now suffer the pains of a sick wife…

Arod's ears twitched, drawing Legolas' attention, and the Elf turned. Faramir was approaching, picking his way gingerly through the tall grasses. The steward led Hasufel by the reins, the animal strutting quite proudly behind his master. Legolas could not keep a small grin from gracing his face at the sight of his friend. Hasufel had always been a rather mulish beast, but the great, gray warhorse particularly despised water. He had outright refused to ford the River Sirith, skittered about the muddy shore as though the clean currents were poisonous. No amount of prodding could convince the stubborn horse to cross the river, and when Faramir's patience failed him, the steward had simply cursed his mount for his foul and exasperating disposition and attempted to get down, intending obviously to take the horse by the bridle and lead him across the river. Hasufel, of course, grew quite indignant over the ranger's harsh words and reared at the most inopportune moment. Faramir had been spilled from his saddle, landing rather unceremoniously into the thick, gooey mud that lined the bank with a loud _splat_.

Even now he was covered in it, the muck clinging to his once pristine surcoat and coating his hair and face. The sticky stuff had even found its way into the tiny chinks of his chain mail. Faramir had had no time to clean himself, and the dirt was not drying in the humid air, leaving him decidedly a mess.

"Éomer has ridden to the west bank," Faramir explained, slightly winded, when finally he reached his Elven and Dwarven companions. "He should return shortly." He pushed a tangled, muddy lock of hair behind his ear as his gray eyes roved the camp. The men rested with their respective companies, taking a late afternoon meal. The heat had risen during their march, and the air was very heavy with clinging moisture. Tired, tense bodies had settled among the grasses, seeking their cooling touch, and a gentle breeze set the greens to motion like rolling waves. Surrounding them were the battalions of Gondor and Ithilien. Farther west, spread across the wide field, were those of Harad. In the distance the oliphaunts stood tall, providing shade for their weary riders.

This place was still verdant, even with the coming of autumn, and summer stuck to the land as perspiration did to the body. The grasses were too tall, and they would make movement difficult. The ground was firm enough, but only a mile separated hard earth from watery and uncertain terrain. They would have little room in which to maneuver in battle. If the fight shifted suddenly, if they lost control of the situation, they could very easily slip onto terrain that would hinder their efforts. Faramir squinted "This land is terrible," he muttered lowly.

Gimli nodded, pleased that another agreed with his previous assessment. "It will be a wretched chore to defend," commented the Dwarf rather matter-of-factly. He looked to Legolas as the Elf absently patted Hasufel's neck. "The enemy has chosen a spot that denies either side a clear advantage."

Legolas released a long, slow breath. "It is more dangerous than we imagine," he declared, turning dull blue eyes upon Faramir. "When night comes and the air cools, this plain will be blanketed in a soupy mist. It will come down from the mountains and sweep over us. We will be left blind." The words left a foul taste in his mouth, but he knew with striking finality that what he said was true. The air was wet and the winds were settling. Such conditions bred fog easily.

Faramir nodded slightly, his own expression twisted and downcast with the unpleasant thought. Legolas held his gaze for a moment, but the setting sun was directly behind the ranger's head and its glaring light made his head throb. He averted his eyes when the pain became too vexing. Exhaustion was slowing him, he knew, and often his mind would fail him. When it did, he was left vulnerable to idle thought and the endless torment of memory. He did not know how much longer he could withstand the weight of the crushing reality of what had been done to him. He feared sleep, dreaded its calling oblivion, hated the whispers of peace and rest with which it seduced his battered body. But he was weakening, and he was so very tired. His eyes slipped shut against his will.

Sound reached his ears, a voice laced with friendly concern. It took him a moment to focus again, the vacuum that had claimed his him slow to relinquish its grasp. "Legolas, you look ill." It was Faramir. Hands came to grasp the Elf's shoulders. "I worry at your pallor, and your eyes are dull and feverish. Legolas?"

The Elf snapped from his momentary delirium, furious with himself for such an obvious lapse. He nearly lurched, dizziness overcoming his composure and sending the world into nauseating circles. His side ached mercilessly, and only Faramir's steadying hand kept his beaten body upright. The long ride had done little for his sore muscles and bruised ribs, and he was just beginning to realize how much he suffered. But he only swallowed his hurt and stammered, "I am well, Faramir."

Faramir was not satisfied with the statement, for aggravation glowed in his eyes and his jaw tightened. However, Gimli spoke before the ranger could, and his baritone voice was riddled with furious worry. "Stupid Elf! You are _not_ well. You have said this for days, and it is naught but a misleading guise! Speak the truth, else I wring it from your silly neck!"

All sense of control fled Legolas in a flame of his rage. "What does it matter?" he hissed, turning blazing eyes upon Gimli. "The truth will do nothing to ease my agony. No medicine can make well my wounds. Turn your prying eyes and damning questions elsewhere; I want none of it!"

Then they were silent. Gimli's face was screwed tight in his own anger and hurt. His dark eyes glowed in a burning desire to understand and help. It was more than obvious seeing Legolas so miserable distressed him, and the Elf's fury all but melted away at his friend's innocent devotion. Without the strength of his ire, he was left shaking, and he thought for a moment he might simply collapse. Hasufel nipped at his hand. The feel of the horse's warm, wet lips upon his skin jerked him from his daze. Desperately he searched for something to say, for some apology that might ease the weight of the crushing silence his echoing words had created. But he could think of nothing, his mind lethargic and fumbling, and tears burned in his eyes.

"Legolas," Faramir said began, "please, you must be candid with us. It is too important a matter to hide behind pride." The ranger's face was resolute.

"Pride?" Legolas repeated harshly. "This is no act of pride, Faramir. I hardly have left such a thing."

Gimli grabbed the Elf's arm. Though the grasp was not meant to be painful, the tight hold felt bruising to Legolas. "You speak in riddles again, Elf. I will not have it! Hiding your hurts in the safety of Minas Tirith is one matter, and though it grieved me, I said naught about your foolery for the sake of your honor. But now we face battle, and I will not let you falter because of wounds that have not healed rightly!"

Something inside Legolas pulsed in sudden and violent fury. "How would you know that?" he demanded, his voice heated. Gimli's hard visage dropped almost immediately, and he looked away, as though ashamed. The wrathful Elf turned his accusing eyes upon Faramir, but the steward as well averted his gaze, dropping his hands from Legolas' shoulders and bowing his head slightly. Then realization came over the Elf, and cold and heat devoured him at once, leaving his body and mind reeling. "Aragorn told you," he whispered, his ashen lips hardly moving with the numb words. Betrayal, deeper and darker than any feeling he had ever known, stabbed into him, and he nearly doubled over he felt so terribly sick.

The quiet that ensued was awkward and hurtful. Legolas clenched his jaw to prevent its shaking and swallowed the sob itching in his throat. His whole body pounded and drummed in agony. Over and over again he sank into despair and memory only to be ripped into the heat of his anger. How could Aragorn have done such a thing to him? How could his dearest friend have violated his privacy and betrayed his trust? Vaguely he heard Faramir speaking, but the other's words did little to ease him. "He only asked that we pay you our care. He thought perhaps you have been afflicted with a toxin he could not easily detect, and it would hinder you in battle." Legolas closed his eyes and looked away. He knew not what to think or how to feel. Faramir sighed. "He said little, Legolas. He did not break your confidence." The other paused. "And I know this is not the time for such a thing, but should you need to speak of what troubles you…"

"Do not say that." _Do you want to know the darkness inside my heart? Do you want to see this ugliness? Do you want to feel the pain of violation, of helplessness, of betrayal? My light is gone… Gone!_ But he did not say these things. He did not have the strength to admit their truth. Releasing a quivering breath was all he could do to stifle the scream building within his chest. Blinking was all he could do to hold back the burning tears filling his eyes. Living was all he could do to ignore the agony tearing him from within. "Let us speak of this no longer." His whisper was wistful, as though by dropping the subject the entire horrid matter might simply disappear.

Gimli and Faramir exchanged glances. Legolas did not miss this doubtful, suspicious action, and again anger flared up within him. _I am not mad! Do not treat me so!_ Then the steward shifted questioning, hesitant eyes upon the Elf. "I do not doubt you. Please understand. You look terribly feverish. At least let us see to it."

_Feverish?_ But before his muddled mind could consider that, Faramir reached toward him, aiming to lay an examining hand across his brow. Fear jolted the Elf and Legolas backpedaled, recoiling from the seemingly innocent action. "Do not touch me!"

A queer stasis overcame them, as though time itself was shocked into a paralyzed stupor by the incredible moment that had just transpired. The closest of friends had been seemingly torn apart, and for no apparent reason. Faramir watched Legolas with wide, confused, and frightened eyes, slowly lowering his hand to his side. They were silent, each wondering what now to do or say, each praying that the horrible situation was somehow not real. Legolas felt his spirit wither. What sort of monster was he becoming? These were his dear friends, his comrades with who he had spent much time in merry-making and in battle. These were his brothers! They meant him no harm! "By the Valar, Legolas," Faramir gasped, "what is wrong with you?"

He had no answer. Would that this endless storm of torture in his head end, he could think! Thankfully, he was saved from the oppressive weight of the question by the thunder of many approaching horses. All eyes turned to the west where Éomer approached, followed by a group of Rohirrim. Green banners blew in the wind as they slowed their gallop. Alongside him rode Ulpheth and a few of the Haradrim. The party stopped before them, and Éomer gracefully dismounted his tall horse. The beast's name was Firefoot, and like Hasufel and Arod, he was a mighty stallion, bred strong and beautiful. The King of Rohan patted his steed affectionately before approaching his friends.

If Éomer detected the melancholic confusion claiming the man, the Elf, and the Dwarf, he did not make mention of it. "The western bank is significantly less flooded, but I fear the land is poor indeed." The young man's blond hair clung to his temples with the sheen of sweat. His face glowed vibrantly. "What think you, Faramir, of our options?"

The steward had recovered from his shock, though the ghost of hurt still floated about his eyes. "Have scouts been sent south?" he questioned.

"Aye," responded Ulpheth. "Thus far there have been no reports of the enemy's approach."

Faramir shook his head darkly, his eyes clouded in thought. "Surely they will come soon if they mean to come at all," he remarked. "The rivers pose a treacherous obstacle at night, and the surrounding lands will be difficult to cross."

"Perhaps they know not of the terrain of this place," offered Gimli thoughtfully, looking up to Faramir for the steward's thoughts on his conjecture.

Ulpheth's dark face grew malignant, his black eyes glittering in anger. "Nay, they are well aware of it," he declared spitefully. His voice was low and rumbling, seething in hatred. "They are a cunning lot. Never would they venture into a situation they did not fully understand or control. Surely they chose this town knowing of the rotten state of the land. Surely they intended to reach this place before us."

Faramir nodded. "I agree. Imagine the advantage given to the force that holds the dry field?" The steward turned, sweeping his outstretched fingers across the grasses. The flat land spread for nearly a league between the two swollen rivers. "Were our places reversed, we would have to trudge across the swamps and ford the river under fire. Our men would reach this place weakened and wearied. Yes, they _knew_ of this. It would have been a grand trap, and we would have fallen easily."

Gimli smiled. "Now _we_ shall surprise _them_," announced the Dwarf, his gruff voice lightened by enthusiasm and joy at this fortunate turn of events. In that moment there was a bit of hope. Forever, it seemed, had the Easterlings held an advantage over them. Always the enemy was ahead of them, plotting, entrapping, leaving a bloody wake in their campaign. This was the opportunity their vengeful hearts had long desired.

"From which direction will they come?" wondered another of Éomer's lieutenants, the young man turning inquisitive eyes to his king.

It was Faramir who answered, however. "We have no indication that they will come on one front. I would have to postulate that a charge from the east or west is more likely, as the two rivers join to form quite a monster with strong currents and deep trenches. Approaching from the south would be foolhardy at best."

Éomer's eyes were warm with anticipation. "I believe the best course of action is to create three lines of defense," explained the king. He stepped into the circle of men, leaving Firefoot to graze. "Between our forces we have roughly two hundred archers. The land slopes slightly as the swamp recedes on both banks, though this incline is slightly sharper on the west side. If we form a line of archers on each bank, we can thin the strength of their charge. It will be as you say, Faramir. They will arrive wearied by a march through the bogs, and certainly we can diminish the strength of their advance before it even reaches Emyn Nimsîr."

"A fine idea, my Lord," spoke Elfhelm, the newly appointed Marshall of the East-mark. The man's face was placid, but his hands were balled tightly into fists about his horse's reins.

Éomer nodded and continued. "Behind the archers we place the infantry, roughly three hundred on each side." The young man pointed to each horizon, east and west, visualizing how the expanse of men would appear when his plan was enacted. "These we stretch wide and long, creating a barricade of sorts. Should the Easterlings breach the swamps on either side, we will be prepared."

"Is so thin a defense wise, my Lord?" questioned Ulpheth. He seemed a bit perplexed and worried. "If we are flanked, it will be a simple matter of time for the enemy to swarm upon the field and attack one side from both fronts."

"That is why we will build a third line of riders in the center of the field. Should either side fail and the Easterlings reach the plains, the riders will immediately attack them. They will not be able to see such a force from their vantage. Cavalry will be off no use in wetlands. And the town's militia can guard the village itself. I have already instructed the citizens to remain inside and seal all windows and doors. Hopefully it will not come to the point where their aid will be required." Éomer released a slow breath and turned steady eyes about the group. "With this plan, we can monitor all entrances into Emyn Nimsîr and hopefully repel any attack."

Faramir gazed about his wife's brother, his eyes thoughtful. "Why not simply destroy one of the bridges? By doing that we force them to ford the river, giving us both ample opportunity to plan properly and build our defenses appropriately," suggested the steward.

"I would hesitate in that action," Gimli remarked. The stout creature shook his head slowly. "It would hinder them, yes, but should we need to escape, we will have no means to do so."

The others realized the logic of that argument immediately, offering a series of nods in response to the Dwarf's assertion. Éomer said, "It is an option open to us, should we need it. For now, I suggest we move quickly to form our defense. We know not what time is still available to us." The young man turned his gaze to Faramir. It was a strange situation. Neither truly had command over the other, for Gondor and Rohan were two separate nations and their governments existed exclusive onto themselves. Yet Faramir had silently and without argument submitted himself to Éomer's authority. The young king had proudly proclaimed that he would lead this campaign, after all. "Does this plan agree with you, Faramir?"

The steward's eyes remained glazed a moment more in contemplation. Then the gray orbs hardened and focused upon Éomer. "Aye, it does."

"Good," answered the king. "You will command the western front. Legolas, what say you of it?"

Legolas frankly had not been paying attention. The disease of despair and hurt afforded him little in the way of concentration, and Éomer's question alarmed him. He nearly jerked in surprise, forcing his wayward senses to pay heed to his surroundings. "I am with you," he murmured after a beat. His mouth was dry and the words were thick to his ears.

Éomer nodded. "Then the eastern front is under your authority. Come, we have little time to act, and I do not want to be caught off our guard."

* * *

In a matter of an hour all was ready. Because horses were more of a hindrance than a boon on the wetlands, the animals had been herded into the center of the field where the Riders of Rohan were stationed. Upon the eastern bank were many lines of archers and infantry, crouched among the long grasses, laying in wait for the appearance of their foe. The reeds provided cover enough, obscuring the bodies and bows from distant perception. All the banners had been lowered, their bearers donning swords instead of standards. The wind had abandoned the plains sometime earlier, leaving everything painfully silent and motionless. The men shifted restlessly every so often, and the rustle of the grasses would betray their location momentarily. The Elves remained perfectly still, only the roaming of their attentive, bright eyes indicative of their presence. Both man and Elf alike were riddled with tension, though, and all senses were anxiously trained upon the River Sirith and eastern wetlands that lay before them.

Legolas held his breath as he crouched upon the ground. He did not like waiting for an attack, and his acute senses were becoming even further muddled by his exhaustion. He knew that concentration now was crucial, for they would have but one opportunity to surprise the enemy and it was a moment they could not afford to miss in distraction or hesitation. Normally he was a warrior of endless patience, and talent and hundreds of years of experience afforded him a certain peace that eased both mind and body before a potentially hazardous situation. It was a gift of his kind, this stoicism, and he had been trained dutifully by his father, his older brothers, and Mirkwood's master archers to find within himself peace and see and act through it. It was not so different from standing completely still and sighting down the shaft of an arrow, seeking the instance of perfect calm in which to release. One twitch, one tremble of a finger or arm, one misplaced breath or blink could affect an arrow's path and ruin a precise trajectory. At that moment the bend of the bow put no strain upon the muscles, and every bit of the self fell away. He could sense all. There was no air, but he did not need to breathe. There was so much to see and feel, but he was not distracted. There was naught but the tip of the arrow and the target. In the emptiness the trees would whisper to him, the winds would sing the intricacies of their paths, and all of Middle Earth would pulse around him. And in that moment, a tranquility that few could understand came to him. Talent in archery gifted him with more than quick eyes and incredible strength. He could sight a target like none other, and with deadly precision and unbelievable speed and draw and hit it from hundreds of yards away. But few realized the promise of silence in that moment, when the world collapsed to the point and the beat of his heart. He had been taught to live in that instance of deep and emotionless serenity. There was nothing beyond the target, no battle, no struggle, no consequences. He felt closer to his own soul in the still moment, and that tranquility, that poise, was the core of his prowess in battle. The peace was the center of his being.

But now it was fleeting, and somewhere beneath layers of torment, anguish, and memory, he was terrified. Only a scant few times in the past had he felt so… _sick_. Once, many years ago when he had been but a young and eager hunter, he had prematurely joined one of his sibling's patrols. A callous moment of frivolous and boastful heroism had left him with a nasty spider bite upon his thigh. He recalled his father's calming voice and worried eyes as the king comforted his son throughout the worst of the fever dreams. Of course, Mirkwood's healers were greatly experienced with treating the venom of the hideous beasts, and the young archer had been well again within a matter of days. Still, he had never forgotten what it had felt like to be violently and dangerously ill. All too well did his condition now mimic his suffering then, and there in the field, hundreds of years later, his father was not available to nurse him from the depths of delirium. His entire body throbbed in time with his racing heart. His head was pounding, the excruciating pain crashing behind his eyes and beating against his skull. A faint, shrill ringing plagued him, and at times he irrationally and stupidly wished to simply block the terrible noise by covering his ears. His muscles throbbed in a way that weighed down his form and made movement a difficult venture. He felt unreasonably sluggish, his motions uncharacteristically choppy and clumsy. Agony had claimed his entire left side, selfishly feasting upon his endurance and leaving him weak and dizzy. The Elf was hot and cold at once, and this frustrated him greatly for one moment he was nearly quaking in chill and the next he felt fatigued with heat. It was difficult to maintain his focus, and he could ill afford to falter. The lives of his legion depended upon him. He needed to concentrate!

"I do not like this." The grumble from his left drew his rattled attention, and Legolas focused uncooperative and stinging eyes upon Gimli's form. The Dwarf sat upon the grass beside him, the reeds rising around him like walls of green. His axe lay across his lap, and his hands tightened compulsively about the hilt. "Bah! I hate waiting!"

If he had not been so distraught with his ailing body and mind, the Elf would have relished the opportunity to chide his friend on his impatience. As it was, Legolas only swallowed the nausea building in his throat and forced his wandering mind to focus. Such a thing was becoming increasingly more difficult. _Feverish? Ai, if only my mind would clear… If only I could think!_

The Elf lifted a clammy hand from the arc of his bow and absently pressed it to his chest. He felt a small lump beneath the layers of his clothes and he closed his eyes briefly, comforted by the touch of it. Fethra's pendant was somehow cool against his heated skin, and the area to which it pressed seemed to be the only small part of his body that did not ache. He did not wonder much at this, simply grateful for its soothing presence. Inexplicably it had become a pillar of strength for him, for when he touched it or felt it press to his breast, he thought of her. The child grounded him in reality, keeping his wandering and tortured mind tethered to the responsibilities of the moment.

Gimli was speaking, and Legolas forcibly shifted his attention to his companion. The Dwarf's whisper seemed incredibly and painfully loud to his overly sensitive ears. The sound grated upon him, somehow akin to a shriek or shrill scream despite its softness. "The air has grown so still here."

The Elf responded with little thought, grateful that his lips were somehow capable of forming intelligent responses without the aid of his mind. "The wind had ceased. The earth holds its breath. They come soon."

Gimli watched him, as if torn between disbelief and hope. Legolas felt ashamed for how he had acted earlier and his continued unusual and burdensome behavior. Unfortunately he never remained in control of his mind long enough to modify his acts, and the attacks of trance-like memory and numbing pain were simply too numerous and powerful to effectively combat. Horrific images of the beating and rape, doubt and anger over all he had experienced, feelings of betrayal and bitterness toward Aragorn, and the strange malaise and poisoning sickness that consumed him… these things combined to form a monster with many heads, a ghoul that ravaged him on all fronts and left him unable to even struggle, much less predict when the next assault would occur. He had never before experienced anything like this. Never before had his customary peace been so completely gone from him. As a Wood Elf, he was especially attuned to the swelling power of nature, to the songs of trees, wind, and stars, to the ebb and flow of life. He was gifted more than most of his kind, in fact, and long had he learned to sense and understand things beyond what others could see, touch, or hear. For the first time in his life these things, these melodies that were as much a part of him as his skin or spirit, were lost in a muddled mess of disease and anguish.

Gimli's eyes had softened and his face was fearful. "Legolas," he began softly, "many times in the past have we been as such, waiting together for battle to begin. Many times before have I been in your presence, watching you weather the storm of tension and terror around you without so much as a rushed breath or fearful blink. We Dwarves are not so unobservant. Oft times I wondered at such a thing, at first with annoyance and perhaps a tad of jealousy, but later with only respect and admiration. It boggled my mind, and that is no simple thing for me to admit, understand, that you could remain so… composed before such ruin. It annoyed me to no end, in fact, as I stood there and watched your passive face betray none of the anger and fear I felt myself." Gimli sighed softly, his breath shaking the grasses before him. "With time I came to realize that it is not callousness or arrogance that you bear before the battle. It is your strength, your courage." Legolas looked down, averting hurting eyes from his dear friend. "You do not bear it now."

"Gimli – "

But the Dwarf would not be interrupted. "I have never seen you falter, Elf, and I have no wish to see it this night. If you will not speak to me, then I shall simply swallow my wounded pride and abide by your wishes. It does grieve me deeply that, despite the bond of our hearts, you will not confide in me the source of your troubles. Why suffer in silence? I might bear them with you and in doing so make them lighter upon weary shoulders." The stout warrior's eyes flashed in sadness. "Do you fear I will think less of you?"

Tears flooded Legolas' eyes, the same tears that always threatened but that he never found the strength to release. "Yes." His ashen lips hardly moved with the word.

"Then you are a fool. I will do no such thing! Think you so lowly of me?"

"Of course not, Gimli – "

The Dwarf's gloved hand snatched his own, tearing it from where it rested over Fethra's pendant. "Then speak to me. Tell me what ails you. I cannot stand to see you suffer so!" Legolas remained silent; he did not have the breath to respond, and his burning, dry throat had tightened, blocking his voice. Gimli inched closer. "At least take some rest. You are ill. Mayhap the pride and inexperience of your kind blinds you to the fact, but I see it clearly. I know not the cause of your malady, but it is dangerous, I am sure of it!" The grip on his hand was iron. "Your eyes glow with delirium, with a madness I never thought possible. You shake and tremble like a leaf blown in too strongly a breeze, helpless and submissive to the currents of the gale. Your face is pale and you limp. You think perhaps that I do not see these things, but I do. _I do_." Legolas grimaced and tried to pull away, but Gimli's grasp was too strong. "Can you not see the danger you face here? You told me Elves are not infallible. Have you suddenly forgotten your own words?"

They were silent a moment, Gimli's whisper hanging in the stagnant, wet air. Legolas' head throbbed mercilessly in the emptiness, and he could not gain sufficient enough control over the pain to provide any sort of answer. Thankfully, once again fate interceded on his behalf, for abruptly did a breeze pick up and sweep over them. His muddled emotions miraculously reclaimed concentration and direction, and he tensed his body to stop its infernal shaking. The smell of heat, of sweat. Of blood. _They are here!_

Legolas crept forward a bit, Gimli releasing him in realization, and spoke in a hushed tone to his lieutenant. "Send word down the line to acquire targets. We release arrows only when I say." The Elf nodded at his lord's words. A whisper in Sindarin rolled silently down the line of Elven archers. Éomer had thought it best to divide the Elves of Ithilien equally between both fronts, as their keen sight was too valuable an asset to place singularly. Night would soon come, and the darkness would hamper men greatly. Valandil commanded the other half of the Elven warriors under Faramir upon the western front. Legolas had also been granted the command of mostly Gondor's forces, and he was glad for it as he knew these men were comfortable enough around him to trust his orders.

The hidden force tensed as soft orders fled up and down the line in Elvish and Westron. Behind him, the infantry remained hidden, commanded to stay obscured by the grasses until the enemy breached the swamps. Arrows were drawn from full quivers and fitted to bow strings. Bodies were hard and stiff in a struggle to stay the panic and remain still, eyes darting about for signs of the approach, breaths held in anxious fear.

Legolas joined his archers, pulling an arrow from his quiver and absently placing the fletching against his longbow's string. Gimli grabbed his knee, and he looked back at the Dwarf. "I am fine," he whispered, forcing bravado into his voice. His eyes flashed. The matter was no longer open for debate. "I will not fall."

The Dwarf grumbled something low beneath his breath and gripped the shaft of his great axe as he came to crouch beside Legolas. "I will be sure of it," muttered Gimli, his eyes dark with hatred for the enemy. "Let them come, then. My axe yearns for the taste of blood this night."

Then all became still. Legolas scanned the reeds, the grasses washed dark red in the setting sun. Crickets chirped madly, bellowing their frantic songs into the night. The ground sloped ever so slightly into the swamp, but it was enough to provide the archers with a clear view. There was the murmur of grasses swaying against bodies. Then black forms appeared through the soupy mists forming about the marsh. Legolas narrowed his eyes, his fingers absently running along the sharp feathers of the fletching of his arrow. They were perhaps a hundred yards away, but Legolas could easily detect their dark eyes, their weapons, their staggering steps as they struggled through the murky morass. A kill at this distance would be a simple matter, but he doubted the men he commanded could yet distinguish form from shadowy, foggy apparition. They had to wait. _Steady. Breathe. Wait._

A few minutes passed, and in that time the Easterlings nearly emerged from the bog. The fog parted around them. Legolas spotted one and closed his attention about him. Desperately he dug through his suffering and searched for that calm, for his peace. Long breaths left him and he began to panic. He could not find it, the composure he sorely needed to guide his mind and body. Every part of him, and he could not control the pain. He could not! Was this to what the assault had reduced him, a weakling that could find no strength or courage? Was he not a master archer, a prince, an Elf? Why could he not concentrate?

But suddenly it snapped into place. The calm enveloped him, shaking and wavering at first, but gradually becoming stronger as he slipped into its familiar and secure void. The shaking stopped. The pain faded. He was ready.

The enemy came within range. Legolas drew a sharp breath, tightening his hand about the shaft of his bow. "Now!" he cried, and he stood in one fluid motion. All around him the archers did the same, following his lead. The Elf prince drew back powerfully, feeling the familiar strain tingle in his arms and chest. In a flash he saw the tip of his arrow and the eyes of the man he had targeted. A snap followed as he released, and the arrow careened forth with incredible speed and power. He watched as it struck the soldier between the eyes. The man fell with a surprised cry. The first shot of the battle had met its mark.

A breath later a volley of arrows descended upon the Easterlings. Caught unaware, the first line of their troops fell easily, collapsing with a bloody splash into the dirty water. A cry went through the approaching force, and a panic consumed them as they struggled to take cover. Legolas had already fired another arrow, killing a man fumbling in the mud. As he notched another arrow, he gave himself whole-heartedly to the familiar caress of impassivity. For the first time in days he was indifferent to all around him but the hum of his heart and his bow beneath able fingers. The arrow flew true from his great bow.

By this time the enemy had recovered enough from the surprise of the ambush to return fire of their own, and a rain of black arrows slammed into the archers of Gondor's defense. Screams rent the air, cries of pain and fear and death that shattered the silence of moments before, and the wounded or murdered Elves and men fell to the grass. Legolas ducked to avoid a shot, but he was not quite fast enough. His retarded reflexes failed him, and the sharp tip of an arrow clipped his right arm, slicing easily through his jerkin and tunic to reach the vulnerable flesh below. Stinging pain laced through his shoulder momentarily, but he paid the wound little heed, instead drawing another arrow from his quiver and rolling to his feet. Automatically he fitted it, sighted a target, and another assailant fell in the swamp.

"Fire in volleys!" cried the Elf prince as he dropped to a crouch again. He paused briefly to look at his arm. Dark blood was seeping into his clothes, but the wound was not very deep. His inner calm wavered a moment as bout of nausea claimed him. Had he moved a second later, had he stood but a few inches further to the right, that arrow might have claimed his life.

Gimli growled in frustration. The Dwarf never had relished these periods when the battle was left to the luck of flying arrows. He was a deadly adversary in close quarters, but when the archers dominated the field, Gimli could do naught but wait and take cover when shots came too close. He turned to Legolas as the Elf pressed his fingers to the neck of a fallen archer beside them. The man beside him was dead, a black arrow having stabbed deep into his chest. Legolas grabbed the arrow the man had clenched in his hand and put it to his own bow. He whirled and stood, drawing back and peering rapidly into the darkening fog. He let loose his shot, and, not even bothering to see whether it met its mark, fired another and another. The peace within directed his body without conscious thought, years of experience driving him. Two more running Easterlings were brought down by his quick shots, the white feathered arrows arcing from his bow like bolts of lightning. More men shoved past the dead, pushing up the small incline to reach the line of the defense, their weapons raised and their eyes blazing in blood lust. Legolas acted far quicker than those about him, snapping two arrows to his bow at once and shooting them. The Easterlings fell with shrieks, rolling back with the force of the impact and tumbling down into the mud.

Yet others were quick to follow. Arrows whizzed through the air as the row of archers behind the front line released them, striking some of the foes that had managed to escape the sludge of the swamp. The enemy continued to come, though, undaunted by the strength of the resistance. For every one they killed another was quick to assume the vacant position, and companies flooded up the hill.

Gimli released a throaty battle cry in Dwarvish before brandishing his axe against the wave of Easterlings that had finally come to their lines. The stout warrior stepped into the thrust of one man's sword, slamming the gleaming edge of his weapon into his attacker's gut. Legolas loosed another arrow, killing a charging enemy, before pivoting lightly on his heels and drawing one of his long knives. He swiftly ducked, avoiding the sloppy slash of a wicked scimitar, and returned with a powerful kick that caught the other in the chest. The opponent tumbled to the grass with the force of the blow, gasping for breath and dropping his weapon. The Elf gave him no time to regain his wits, though, twirling his knife masterfully before driving it deeply into the man's exposed throat. His eyes went wide and he choked and gurgled before laying still. Legolas pulled free his bloody blade and spun to meet the next attacker.

Chaos was erupting on the field as more and more Easterlings breached the swamp. Their number was more than they had anticipated, and Legolas swallowed his dread and denied himself this moment of dismay. "Drive them back!" hollered the Elf prince over the din of clanking weapons, screaming, and snapping bowstrings. "Stand firm! Drive them back!"

"Foul creatures!" snapped Gimli as he smacked his axe against the hooked sword of another adversary. The Dwarf was strong and stern, and his axe scrapped powerfully along the length of the Easterling's weapon, surprising the man and forcing him to drop the blade. Defenseless, he could do nothing as Gimli quickly rounded on him, pounding his axe into the man's chest plate. When the man stumbled from the blow, the sharp edge arced in a mighty swing, and a severed head fell with a thud into the grasses.

Their line was faltering. The infantry had not yet risen from their concealment, and Legolas knew that he had to postpone their reinforcement for as long as possible. Once the enemy knew of their strength, any benefit they might have once had would be gone, and the battle would fall to simple skill and strength. "There are too many!" Gimli growled from his side, dispatching another approaching warrior. Legolas drew back on his bow and brought down an aiming archer in the swamp. "Do more yet come?" Gimli gasped.

Legolas ducked, grabbing the arm of an Elf beside him and yanking him down as another volley of enemy arrows came upon them. The wretched, black bolts slammed into the moist soil all around them. The Elf prince paused a moment before grabbing another arrow from his rapidly depleting supply and launching it at their enemies. Quickly his eyes scanned the mists, estimating the strength of their foe in the moment he could afford to stand still. Then he dropped to his knees, feeling a bit winded and even less secure of this situation. "Not many more," he said softly, pulling a few loose arrows from the ground and the bodies nearby, "but enough."

"Can we hold this?" Gimli demanded, watching with hateful eyes as more Easterlings seemingly poured from the fog condensing over the swamp.

Legolas did not answer as he rose and began to fight again, for his mind could conjure no reassurances. He did not know how long they could maintain this position. The infantry remained in reserve, but archers were dying all around much faster than they had anticipated. They had thinned the Easterling's charge, certainly, but would the damage they had inflicted be enough? The Elf gritted his teeth. There were not one thousand men charging this front. It was as he feared: the Easterlings were attacking Emyn Nimsîr from all sides. He could only hope Faramir's warriors had better allayed the strength of the enemy. And what if their assailants somehow approached directly from the south, where Gondor's defenses were weakest? It seemed rather ludicrous to imagine a massive force of men charging where the rivers were at their widest, but certainly it was a possibility, and they would be foolish to immediately disregard the chance.

The battle lulled for a moment. The Easterlings halted their advance, giving the Elves and men of Gondor time to recuperate. Legolas lowered his bow, peering into the haze. The shadowy forms had slipped back. He wondered wistfully for a moment if they had somehow managed to force their opponent into a retreat, but he quickly dismissed the unfounded thought. The Easterlings were resilient. In the distance he could just barely perceive through the thickening wisps of fog the dark lines of troops push across the River Sirith. Some charged across the narrow stone bridge, and others swam and shoved their way through the water. They would come again within a matter of moments, reinforced and reorganized.

"Prince Legolas! Prince Legolas!" Legolas lowered his bow and turned at the call. A red-faced, winded messenger stopped before him, having dismounted from a panting horse. His eyes were wide. "I have come from King Éomer, sir, to inform you that Rohan has left the field to aid Lord Faramir."

Panic suddenly pulsed through Legolas. "What has happened?" he demanded, stepping closer to the gasping young man.

"I know not, sir!" He shook his head frantically, obviously frantic with the terrible tidings he bore. "The King only bid that I notify you of the situation. I am sorry, m'lord!" he stammered, appearing quite frightened of the Elf and Dwarf.

It was with good reason. Gimli roared in fury, "This is no time for silly apologies and dawdling! Ride back, man, and return with useful information! We cannot be so blind!" The messenger seemed paralyzed for a bit, bending away from the stout warrior's booming voice and fiery eyes. Then he skittered back, scrambling onto his horse and charging across the field.

Legolas felt lost suddenly, and the pains of his body began to threaten once more. He wondered frantically over Faramir's plight, praying with every bit of his being that his friend was well and his situation not as dire as the Elf feared. Surely they could not have fallen! And yet if Éomer had ridden to provide aid, there was little chance that western defenses had not been broken. Chills claimed the Elf, and all he could do to prevent his shuddering was clenching his aching body. Rage coursed over him, worry riddling his racing thoughts with doubt and terror. Gimli's eyes were upon him. He could feel his friend's imploring gaze, pressing upon the Elf a silent wish that somehow Legolas act to remedy this disaster. "What can we do?" asked Gimli quietly. "How can there be so many? If Faramir's forces have lost…"

_Act. Ignore the problems of others and concentrate on your own,_ his mind chided harshly as he rose to his feet. The rush of the battle left him dizzy a moment, and he nearly stumbled. Bile burned in the back of his throat, but he only swallowed it in discomfort. The fog was reaching onto the field, blanketing them in bloody mist, and the sun was nearly set. In a matter of minutes it would be dark. _Reform. Hold the line. You must hold the line!_ "We cannot be flanked," murmured the Elf prince, "and if Faramir has fallen, then…" His eyes widened. Gimli glanced at him, wondering at his strange actions. "Stay here, Gimli!" shouted Legolas. The Dwarf had no time to protest as the Elf took off in a sprint, running towards the company commanders. The men saw his approach, abandoning in directing their archers to offer him a shaken salute.

"My Lord," one of the commanders gasped. Blood drooled on his brow from a vicious cut. "Supplies are thinning. We will shortly deplete ammunition stores."

"We are losing too many men, my Lord!"

The calm whispered to him a plan, and he could think to take it. No doubt festered in his weary heart. No opposing voice of logic screamed in his bewildered mind. He simply embraced it, resolution glowing suddenly in his fevered eyes. "Have the infantry prepare to charge," he ordered.

"Charge?" another of the commanders asked, his face frightened and astounded. The man's worn, dirty face scrunched in dismay and disgust. Doubt flooded beady eyes; he obviously thought the prince's plan to be foolery or, even worse, lunacy. "Sir, we cannot abandon this post!"

"They must attack on all fronts," Legolas countered sharply, having no patience for opposition. "They cannot have allotted any particular side a significantly greater amount of men. We have already lessened this one. If we attack, we can push them back to the river and overcome them as they retreat."

The same man shook his head. "My Lord," he snapped, "I must protest – "

"Noted," Legolas said sharply. "The opportunity is before us to drive them back before they can reform. If we do not, they will regroup and swarm the field. Without arrows, we stand no chance of holding this position. I believe close combat in the dark and fog will only result in our defeat."

The logic sounded good and right to him, and apparently it did to his commanders as well, for his words were met with a series of understanding nods. Only the one man remained skeptical, but he eventually offered Legolas a stiff bow, gesturing his submission to the Elf's authority. "Then we will charge on my word."

The prince turned then, not waiting for their approval, and sprinted back to the front lines where the archers were floundering. Orders were echoing up and down the formation. He found the Elves left alive returning a volley again into the swamp, but there were too many targets now. In a moment the Easterlings would reach them, the ghostly mists ferrying the demons to meet them. They had to act now.

Legolas secured his bow upon his back and cried in Elvish, "Draw your swords!" A few surprised eyes turned upon him. "Now!" he bellowed, surprised at the strength in his voice. The Elves immediately jumped to action, and bright blades came free from sheaths with a chorus of metallic ringing.

"What craziness are you ordering?" Gimli's voice drew his attention. The Dwarf stood beside him, kicking aside an Easterling corpse that had fallen close to his feet. The dangerous edge of his axe dripped with red gore. Gimli's eyes were hard in violence and uncertainty.

Legolas gripped the hilt of his sword on his hip. The steel was cold beneath his skin, and he wrapped suddenly weak fingers about it. The calm wavered again, and his head began to spin nauseatingly. _No… Not now. Not now!_ He grunted and drew his blade. It hummed powerfully, vibrating against his hot palm as it was released from its scabbard. Holding the glowing blade aloft, his closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep breath. _I must be calm. Hold, now. We must do this._ When he opened his eyes again, the blue orbs were clear and vehement with purpose. "We charge to meet them," he explained softly and evenly to Gimli.

The Dwarf met his gaze and a smile spread slowly across his knowing face. "Yes," he hissed enthusiastically. He lifted his axe but said no more. No words were needed between them, for they understood each other's hearts. Then eyes were turned ahead, into the miasma. The sounds of the approaching Easterlings filled the air once more.

The infantry was ready behind them, their lances and swords held before them. Frightened glances were exchanged and prayers whispered. The road stretched before them, but darkness covered the way and left much to doubt and contemplation. Still, wherever that path led, it was one they had to walk. The field of battle afforded them no other choice.

Legolas lifted his blade. The black forms were just appearing through the fog. The Elf breathed slowly to gain as much of his composure as possible before relaxing every muscle in his pulsing body. _We can do this._

"Company, ready!" he cried, his eyes trained upon the shadowy haze covering their path. A chorus of replies echoed his call, and the entirety of their force stood at attention. Waiting. Hoping. Tension claimed their hearts, but it could not make wrong their faith or turn weak their courage. This was their land. They would fight to the death to defend it.

Legolas narrowed his eyes. _We will do this!_ "Forward!"

Down they went, across the sloping plains into the misty oblivion. A deafening cry of honor went through the men as the banners of Ithilien and Gondor flew again, fluttering madly in the rush of their charge. The bloody fog opened its arms and swallowed them all.


	15. The Course of Fate

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE COURSE OF FATE**

Life. Death. Reality and nightmare. Sight and sound. In the mist, everything meshed, and the lines that used to define such things so strictly all but disappeared. Tendrils of wispy white consumed all this eve. The phantoms of those who had already died in the fight rose from the bodies littering the muddy ground and reached out to those that still struggled, wishing to exact a furious revenge for their loss. It was a soft swirl of grief and rage, one that invaded the body on each breath and clenched the heart in a cruel vice of exhaustion and misery. The fog was terrifying and blinding, and in it one lost himself to the oblivion. Everything was distant and horrifically close at once, screams and cries coming from seemingly all directions, leaving the body and mind shaking in disorientation. Breathe. Fight. Do not fall! Move. The senses deceived. The vacuum was all around them, distorting truth, sucking away hope and security, leaving nothing but the racing of frantic hearts in a desperate fight. Life and death. A ghostly pall shrouded the two choices, and the weary soul could do naught but fight to find its way through the abyss.

Pandemonium existed within the heavy fog. Everywhere men fell, tripping in the murky, bloody water, some struck by lucky arrows launched from invisible archers. Shouting filled the air, loud, raspy cries emanating from hidden throats. Piercing wails shattered the peace of the night, and the earth seemed to shudder for the horrific violence occurring upon it. Swords clanked loudly against one another, showering sparks that brightened the gloom for only a flash before winking from existence. Armor creaked and clanged with each frenzied blow. Men cried their dying misery, pleading with final breaths for mercy, for relief. Long grasses were trampled and stained red. Mud splattered about as men ran and whirled in furious combat, desperate to protect themselves against the army of demons around them. Apparitions in the fog took form, floating about the marsh as souls escaped dying bodies. Chaos controlled the battle, and in the shadowy haze it was impossible to accurately discern victor from defeated. Perhaps there would be no triumph. Perhaps there would be no escape. Time ceased to exist in this hellish nothingness.

Finally the Easterlings retreated, and the disarray began to abate. The charge had somehow achieved the desired outcome, repelling the already disordered enemy from their continued march to the field. Their enemies pulled their wounded comrades from the swamp, falling back to the river. A rallying cry rose through the mist as the forces of Gondor surged forth, pushing the enemy to the water. Whatever remained of the Easterlings' front staggered over the narrow bridge, those less fortunate flailing through the river. Archers that still had arrows released final shots into the shadows. Eventually the black forms disappeared into the night, fleeing along the river's opposite bank to the safety of obscurity.

Legolas lowered his bow slowly, loosening the tense stance into which his body had fallen. His last arrow he returned to an empty quiver as he watched the Easterlings crawl from the opposite bank. No matter his hatred of them, he would not shoot at a defenseless and retreating force.

The Elf released a slow breath and turned. All around him the fog swirled and twisted like a vortex of clouds and misery. He watched as the curtains of dark gray shifted and spun in their formless and restless dance. An eerie quiet descended over the area, and Legolas' ears rang with the echoes of the harrowing fight. Where there were once screams and shouts now only moans and soft murmurs reached him. Soft steps and gentle splashing replaced the smacking of armor and weapons. It seemed so grotesque and wrong to follow such terrible violence with a peaceful quiet. The walls of shadowy mists parted. Legolas' weary eyes traced the outlines of men as they waded through the mud and water. The energy of the battle had all but abandoned them, leaving them saddened and fatigued, their once powerful and proud postures slumped and despondent. What remained of their fervor was placed in offering aid to the wounded.

Legolas pushed his way through the water, his legs suddenly aching and wobbly. The excitement from the fight fled him as well. Calm disappeared once more, for no longer were there targets, was there any cause to remain so tense and attentive, and his body was simply too worn and beaten to retain such aplomb. The Elf swallowed a painful lump in his throat and replaced his bow upon his back as he gingerly picked his way through the mess of bodies strewn haphazardly about the swamp. As the fog swarmed about the land, so did the fever his mind, and memory stretched and meandered. During the battle he had been able to act with his normal acute and incredible poise, driven by the reliance of his soldiers upon his command. Now he felt weak and weary, and the nightmare he had managed to keep at bay rushed upon his mind again like eager, snapping dogs scrambling for a chance at a feast.

He stumbled, his foot sinking deeply into a muddy hole and his ankle twisting in pain. He could not stop the forward momentum of his body in time to save himself from a fall. The Elf struggled from the water, feeling the cool water seep into the breast of his tunic. Damp hair clung to his face in splatters of mud, moisture, and sweat. Freeing his foot suddenly drained him of whatever endurance remained, and he crawled to a firmer patch of dirt and settled his panting body upon it. Legolas wheezed softly as he braced his elbows on his knees and rested his heavy head in his hands, his beaten frame quivering in chilly agony.

"Lad?" came a quiet voice. Startled, Legolas opened eyes that had slipped shut and turned. Gimli stood behind him, leaning tiredly on his axe. The Dwarf was utterly filthy, his armor covered in mud, his face streaked in grime. Legolas supposed he did not look much better. Gimli's eyes were dark and deep with worry as he knelt in front of his friend.

Legolas released a slow breath and turned burning eyes away. Gimli reached forth and took each of his hands, folding them into his own. "I feel so cold," whispered Legolas, his body quaking uncontrollably as the nebulous haze crept all about them.

Gimli pulled his hand from its glove before laying it upon the Elf's brow. "Aye," he responded softly. "You burn with fever. Come, we must get you from here."

For once Legolas was simply too tired to argue. The allure of rest was too much for his battered mind and body, and Gimli's touch upon his aching skin was soothing. His pride fell away, its normally screaming voice softening to a nattering whine in the face of his pulsing desire for relief. He was finally prepared to simply submit to the wailing want of his soul and allow himself to receive proper care.

But something tickled his senses. He lifted his head as a new smell invaded his nostrils. He recognized it easily enough. _Smoke._ A tiny breeze wafted by them, ferrying the acrid stench to the fog-laden swamp. Warm energy percolated through him. "Something burns," he declared, pulling from Gimli and rising to shaking feet. The odor grew strong as the wind swiftly swept over them. Without a doubt it came from the west. _Faramir._

Panic pulsed through him with the sudden realization. He all but forgot his suffering as he turned, pushing himself into a run. "Come on, Gimli!"

"Elf! Wait! _Legolas!_"

But Legolas was already sprinting up the gentle incline, running faster than he ever had before. At their previous position the infantry was reforming, tending to the wounded as they were carried from the swamp. Weary banners pulled against their poles. The Elf prince drew to a quick halt alongside the captains. Before he turned to them, he looked to the center of the field where the horses were being kept. He struggled for breath a moment before whistling sharply, calling Arod. He could only hope his horse would detect his summons.

By now the commanders had noticed him, and the fiery Elf turned to them. "Ready our forces," ordered Legolas, hardly drawing enough breath to speak. The men turned stunned eyes to him, their mouths hanging limply open. "Reform the line! I will ride to the western front and see if Lord Faramir requires our aid!"

"My Prince, our supplies are spent. Nearly a third of the men are dead or injured. We will not be able to withstand another charge!"

Legolas' eyes flashed madly, bright and blue with anger and dread. "We have no choice. Divide the companies that remain, and prepare half to march to me should the need arise! Hold this ground!" The men looked frightened, their faces lax and ashen, but they nodded at their commander's orders. Legolas detected their deflated morale as if it was a palpable slap, and his frenzy released his heart for a moment. His face softened. "I doubt they will come again. We have pushed them back across the river, and that swamp is far too dangerous a place to traverse at night."

The Elf's soft words eased the moment, dissolving a bit of their fear, and the men shared reassuring glances. One spoke, then, stepping forward and straightening his rumpled and ripped surcoat. "We will regroup the archers and position them as before, my Lord. Should they charge again, they will fail."

Legolas gave a grateful nod. A gasping rumble came from behind them, and the small group turned. "Have the wounded pulled back into the field, as well," Gimli instructed as he staggered closer. The flushed Dwarf bent over a bit, bracing his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his racing breath. "Curse you! Have you no patience? Rude fool…" Gimli snorted and came closer to his tall companion. He dropped his tone so the men rushing about would not hear their conversation. However, the diminished volume did not decrease the worry and annoyance in his tone. "And do you plan to run across the field? In your condition, no less? Pah!"

But Legolas ignored his friend's disdainful utterances, instead turning his attention to the dark field. In the distance he could see plumes of black smoke rising in the twilight. Panic speeded his thoughts, and the Elf pursed his lips to whistle once more. However, another call was unneeded, for Arod appeared moments later, his white form racing through the grasses like a streak of pure lightning. Legolas felt his fear lessen a bit at seeing his friend.

The great stallion slowed before him, silent and beautiful. Arod had obviously broken free from an attendant's hand, for he was bridled and saddled, the leather reins dangling idly beneath his head. Legolas stroked his cold, wet nose briefly in gratitude and relief, and after he turned to look at Gimli expectantly. The Dwarf was trying quite hard to hide his surprise, and had this been any other time, Legolas would have been greatly amused at the effort. "This beast is too much an Elf," grumbled the Dwarf as he approached Legolas and allowed his friend to help him upon Arod's steady back. "At every opportunity he defies all sense of proper reason and drives all who are cursed as witness to the brink of infuriating lunacy."

Legolas did not answer, pulling his throbbing self onto the saddle. He afforded no more than a breath in situating himself before grabbing Arod's reins. The horse took off in a mighty gallop without warning, and Gimli gave an enraged cry as he struggled to maintain his precarious balance, flinging terrified arms about Legolas' waist and grasping the archer as though his life depended on it.

Over the field they flew, bounding over rut and ridge, cutting across the wide expanse of rolling grasses. The sounds of a waning battle grew louder and sharper as they neared the western front. Arod's hooves pounded in the soil, the horse's mighty stride devouring the distance. Legolas had no courage to breathe, the wind tearing the air from his mouth and lungs as it ripped at his hair and bit coldly into his skin. Fear churned in his stomach, twisting his innards painfully, and his mind thundered in terror and doubt. What if the western front had fallen? Gruesome pictures flashed through his weakened mind, terrible images he could not keep at bay. Blood. Death. Faramir and Éomer, slain. _Please no! Oh, Elbereth, please no!_

Ahead the great mass of shadows began to take shape. Legolas squinted and peered into the haze intently, trying to decipher fact from darkness and smoke. Men were running about, bearing the wounded and dying. A large portion of the army appeared to have flooded into the river. Giant black forms bleated and shifted in the water; they seemed to be leashed to the stone bridge and struggling violently to break their bounds. The River Celos also seemed to be the location of the billowing smoke, and as Arod neared, the Elf could see that a makeshift gangway was ablaze. The fire roared as it devoured the wood, sizzling madly when it touched the water beneath. Flags rose upon the field. Rohan. Gondor. The Steward's. Legolas' heart lurched momentarily at the sight of the serpent upon its sea of crimson, but then his beleaguered mind remembered that the Southrons and Easterlings bore the same standard save the inversion of the snake's direction. What he saw was the banner of Harad, weakly blowing in the breeze. _They repelled the onslaught._

The Elf pulled back on Arod's reins as they reached the camp, drawing the horse to a stop. A young soldier looked up at his approach, abandoning his task of holding supplies for the healer beside him. "Prince Legolas comes, King Éomer!" he cried.

Éomer abruptly turned from speaking to a few of his men at the announcement. The young king was somewhat wearied, his face dirtied and dark. His eyes still glowed with power and hope, though, and this eased Legolas' rattled spirit. The Elf dismounted Arod as gracefully as his pained body could manage and then helped Gimli down. The disgruntled Dwarf grumbled a bit more, ridding his attire of the dirt from the ride with a few short swipes of his hands though it was quite a futile gesture. Éomer stepped closer, Firefoot trailing him obediently. "How fares your front?" he asked softly.

Legolas drew a shaking breath, his body once again heavy and lethargic now that he knew the western company had not been destroyed. "We repelled their attack," declared the Elf, hoping his voice did not sound overly strained or weak.

"Casualties?" questioned Éomer.

"Nearly a third. I do not know how many of those are dead or merely injured."

Éomer nodded to this information, his eyes gleaming with both relief and anger. He sighed softly and turned his eyes to mess of men before them. Legolas followed his gaze, observing the soldiers pull the wounded further in land. The Elf had not taken time earlier that day to ride to the west bank where the Celos made its path, but now he realized that the eastern section of the field was far better suited for defense. There was hardly any swamp land here, at least not enough to slow the enemy's charge onto the plains from the river. The terrain was dreadfully flat and easy to cross. "We have lost more, I fear," Éomer murmured softly. His voice betrayed his dismay. "The Easterlings boast a fearsome hatred for their countrymen, it seems. Harad suffered much this night."

Legolas clenched his jaw in restrained rage. Had these monsters no respect for their own kin, for their own blood? He wallowed in his ire a moment, comforted by the security of anger. Then he felt Éomer grasp his arm and he focused upon the weary king. "I am glad you were able to repel their charge. Had you not…" He did not finish, perhaps because at the moment he could not bear to speak of a fate that had nearly occurred.

"What is burning, horse master?" asked Gimli from beside his Elven companion. From his vantage the Dwarf could not see the source of the pungent smoke.

Éomer cast upon Gimli tired eyes. "The enemy brought with them makeshift bridges to increase their speed in fording the river," he explained. Certainly such a thing had only augmented the western front's disadvantage, and though Legolas had once considered his own situation upon the eastern banks dire, he now felt guilty over such an ignorant and selfish idea. "We set fire to them after pushing back the enemy. Ulpheth suggested we destroy the stone bridge as well, and the Mûmakil at present make short work of it."

"You decided to destroy the bridge, then," Gimli said, his expression weak with a bit of dismay and worry.

Éomer shook his head. "I had hoped it would not come to that, but, yes, there was no other choice. Had we not they would have overrun us. At least now we will have but one front."

"And but one escape route," grumbled the Dwarf darkly. Éomer said nothing to this, though he clearly had heard the soft, angry comment. The young man's face broke in shame. Gimli had meant no insult, but it was still critical all the same. The king of Rohan's command had faltered, and his plan had nearly failed in the face of unforeseen dilemma. Surely such a shortcoming was not his fault, but unfortunately once done things could not easily be changed, and rarely did blame for an unfortunate situation leave leaders unscathed. Gimli lifted his chin then and focused upon Éomer. "Where is Faramir?"

Éomer turned and looked into the dark mass of soldiers scurrying about the field. "With Beregond. The captain was injured during the melee." Legolas and Gimli exchanged concerned looks, and Éomer was quick to supply them with more information. "It was not serious."

The Elf breathed a silent sigh of relief. Arod nibbled at his hair, and he was tempted to simply fall back and allow the horse to support him. Once again panic was abandoning his beaten body, leaving him weak and pained. Silence crawled over them briefly, and despite the throbbing of his head, Legolas heard every whisper of the men, every moan of pain and fear. It pounded between his ears, and he grew suddenly more exhausted than he thought he had ever been before. The emptiness was laden with too much: fear, doubt, hope, anger. Serenity sought to push its way to them, riding upon a calming breeze that smelled fresh. The crickets sang a soft, lulling melody. But blood had washed the field, and the tranquility was utterly false.

The king of Rohan finally spoke again, his voice unbearably loud to Legolas' hurting head. "We shall regroup in the field's center and take respite. I will reinforce the fronts as much as possible." Éomer's eyes had softened as he gazed distantly into the black night. "Let us hope they do not come again this night."

* * *

The camp was still after that. All energy fled the bodies of men and Elves, and no action beyond the absolute essential was even considered. The wounded had been carried to the center of the field where the limited number of healers could tend to many at once. Those especially severely injured had been taken into the town itself where a warm bed and individual care waited. The bulk of the remaining army had convened in the field's center, seeking a moment's peace after their harrowing experience. Éomer had been reluctant to abandon either the western or eastern positions, but Faramir had convinced him of otherwise. It seemed unlikely, given the fog, their losses, and the blackness of the night that the enemy would dare attempt another assault. Even if they did, the steward had reasoned, in their weakened condition Gondor stood a better chance of repelling their attack united than divided in defending two fronts. Éomer had eventually conceded, stationing only a company upon each bank for the night's watch.

The rest of the beaten and weary army made their beds upon the cool grasses of the field. The sky had grown overcast, and the dark clouds and fog obscured the light of the stars. The night was very dark, and oppressive in its cold silence. Where once the field had been warm with sun and humidity, now it was chilly and lifeless. The men and Elves took rest, but there was no quiet in their hearts as they lay among the tall reeds. Fear and tension hung on the still air, like the souls of those departed floating about the mire, swirling in the tendrils of mist reaching down to caress the still bodies on the ground. Sleep was an impossible dream for most as they were haunted by the screams of friends in death, by the eyes of those they had killed and seen killed, by the possibility of another charge before dawn. The dead had been left behind in the swamp, for the land was simply too treacherous to send forth soldiers to carry the corpses to dry land. Restless spirits screamed their fury into the night, death a vicious and unfair reward for their struggles, tormenting those left alive with their howling misery.

Legolas breathed slowly and evenly, struggling to ward away the ailment pressing upon him. His mind was overthrown by a different sort of turmoil, for he did not hear the keening wails of the abandoned and disgraced bodies or feel the press of the constant fear of the Easterlings' retaliation. Instead, terror and pain plagued him for his private plight. He was so very tired and his body ached fiercely. The only remedy, he knew, was sleep, and he sorely needed it. Through the haze that claimed his once keen mind no memory would come forth of the last time he truly felt rested. It was so long ago. Too long ago.

The Elf lifted his head. His neck was terribly stiff, and a shaking, clammy hand reached behind to attempt to massage the knots from his tense muscles. Gimli snored loudly beside him, the Dwarf's body curled tightly to conserve heat and covered with a woolen blanket. Legolas smiled weakly despite the misery of his situation. Arod had come to lay behind the two friends, ever mindful of his master's comfort. Gimli had snorted disdainfully at the horse's closeness for quite a while, complaining ceaselessly about the beast's presumptuous behavior and the smell of wet horse. Then the Dwarf had fallen asleep, curled in the warmth of Arod's flank, his head pillowed upon the soft side of the animal. Apparently not even his dislike for Arod could drive him to deny the gentle beast's offering of heat and coziness.

Legolas looked away from his slumbering companion, envying him his peace. The archer refused to lean back into Arod's strength, knowing that if he did so, he might himself slip away into dream. The thought sent chills racing across his skin, turning his stomach in nauseating terror. He did not know if they would come for him again while he lay helpless in sleep. The memory of chain snapping across his back, of those sick lips upon his, of hands groping him was enough to give his shattered spirit strength to avoid sleep. Some part of his stricken mind pondered the rationale of it; surely they could not reach him here, in the middle of this wide field surrounded by guards, watchmen, and soldiers. Yet it had seemed equally impossible for anyone to slip inside the Citadel and take him from the safety of his room, and that _had _happened. Waking nightmare consumed him; the thought of such a trauma again befalling him left him no choice but to stay awake for as long as he needed to.

Sighing, the Elf turned his wandering attention to the pile of arrows before him. He had gone through the battle debris not long before, pulling arrows from corpses. His quiver was depleted; he would need to repair as many as possible before the second wave of the Easterlings' attack came. And there was no doubt in his mind that it would come. Briefly he had spoken with Valandil perhaps an hour earlier, and he was much relieved to discover that his friend was well. The Elves had suffered few losses during the battle. Only one archer had died, and a few more had sustained minor injuries. That had been good news at least, though it did not begin to account for the hundreds of men that had passed this night. The Haradrim had lost well over half their forces, leaving only two hundred or so where there had once been five. Gondor faired a bit better. Legolas could only hope they had managed to strike an equal blow to the Easterlings. If, come the morrow, a thousand enemies swarmed onto the field against their diminished numbers, they would fall and quickly.

There came the sound of soft footsteps, and Legolas looked up. Faramir stood in front of him, offering a cup. Steam rose from the liquid within, reaching ghostly fingers into the air before the vapors disappeared. Arod was silent behind the Elf, but the horse's body tensed ever so slightly in suspicion.

They were silent a moment. Legolas watched Faramir's face, trying to discern the other's intentions. Paranoia had been burned into him by the assault the night before, and he could not for all the want of his crying heart abandon his distrust. The man smiled softly. "Drink this," he implored in a hushed tone.

The Elf narrowed eyes bright with fever. "What is it?" He turned an accusing glare from the beverage to his friend. "Will it make me sleep?" he asked quickly, unable to keep panic from bringing edginess to his quick words.

Faramir's face broke in confusion and hurt. "Nay, my friend. It is only tea."

Embarrassment coiled in Legolas' belly. His hard visage cracked, and his will faltered. _I am so very tired…_ But he said nothing, only receiving the offered cup. The cracked porcelain warmed his cold fingers as he held it between his palms. He felt Faramir's eyes upon him as he slowly brought the cup to his lips. It smelled pleasant, without a medicinal tang. _You fool! Why would Faramir lie to you? You are becoming mad!_ Legolas sipped the liquid slowly, unable to completely shed his suspicion. It tasted sweet and bitter at once, simple tea brewed with a touch of honey. The heat of it soothed his sore throat, and warmth spread across his chest like dulcet fire. Until now he had not realized how thirsty he had been.

Faramir sat across from him, holding his own cup of tea. The steward looked horrendous. He was still caked in grime and mud, the dirt having dried upon his clothes and skin. Like a tiny ray of sunlight amusement came to Legolas as they sat watching each other. In the few years he had known Faramir, not once had the son of Denethor looked so… so much like Aragorn.

The man must have been thinking the same of Legolas. "Never in all my life have I seen an Elf, nay, an Elf _prince_ look so completely unkempt." Faramir chuckled softly. "You are a mess, Legolas."

The words were meant to lighten the moment, and they did briefly. Legolas forced a weary smile to his pale face as he sat. Quiet came then, one wrought with unspoken fears and unwanted weakness. The silence pressed upon Legolas, and his normal calm was so fleeting that he was unable to allay his discomfort. "How fares Beregond?" he asked, desperate to fill the hungry void.

Faramir sighed softly. Guilt flashed momentarily in his gray eyes, his normally stern and proud face falling in the private moment. "Well enough. The arrow was not poisoned, and though the wound bled significantly, the healers believe he will recover completely."

Legolas said nothing to that, as once again his traitorous voice had failed him. He drank his tea, lowering his eyes, feeling terribly ill and even less sure of his grasp upon reality. Images shifted listlessly about within him, grabbing his attention for only a moment before moving away, making him see and hear and touch things that were not there, that were most assuredly passed. The world faded away, and he went with it, too exhausted to fight the pull of memory and wandering thought. Time lost meaning, and he shunned consciousness, floating in a random sea of reminiscence. Perhaps if he sank the pain would stop, the ache of his body would fade, the grip of terror and torture upon his spirit would disappear… Perhaps if he drowned…

"Legolas?"

The Elf jerked and his eyes snapped open. Disorientation left him reeling a moment, a tingling sense of nausea and cold claiming his pulsing form, and he had a difficult time focusing his blurry sight upon Faramir. The steward was watching him quizzically. Concern shone in his gaze. Then the young lord looked down, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup in his lap absently. He looked as though he wished to speak of something, but he either lacked the gall or the elegance to say what he intended. Tension crawled between them, and for a long moment their two souls strained as though trying frantically to meet, to share, to communicate. But there was no such bridge between them, and the frustration was silent and strong. Finally Faramir lifted her eyes. "My Lady asked me but the other day if I would give her leave to make Emyn Arnen bloom again." A faint smile graced the steward's handsome face, the mention of his wife bringing him joy. "She believes our manor to be naught but cold stone and mortar. Though I am quite proud of what we have built, I am inclined to agree with her."

Legolas swallowed his dizziness and forced himself to pay his attention. Faramir went on with his story. "'The Garden of Gondor grows only rock,' she said to me. 'I wish it to sprout green and blossom red and yellow and blue. I wish to have a rainbow of color fill Ithilien.' She finds simple pleasures in simple things. Such simple things. Peaceful things." Faramir's eyes grew glazed in thought. "All my life did I live in my brother's shadow. I loved Boromir like none other, for he was good, strong, and valiant, and he cared for me in the way I wished my father might. The favored son would one day become the ruling Steward. The favored son would inherit the splendor and honor of Ecthelion. Ever did my father dote upon Boromir, and I was left to my own devices. I tried not to be spiteful, to resent the gifts Boromir's earlier birth had bestowed upon him, but oft I could not help myself from wondering at the futility of it. What good is a younger son? What purpose does he serve to a father that needs not another heir? All my life have I coveted this honor that by some twist of fate or ill luck came not to be mine." Anger crept about Faramir's words, and Legolas knew there was much more that he was choosing not to say. These emotions ran deep. The Elf understood that well, for they were not so different from his own. "Only of late, with my father's death and Aragorn's ascension have I come to accept the truth of who I am, of what I am to do. Ithilien has long been my home, and for many years have I longed to see its beauty restored. The forests were meant to flourish, the trees to sing, the rivers to run long and pure. So I made my own purpose. I took upon myself the task of rebuilding land once choked by shadow and corruption, for I _know_ now that I was never meant to be anything other than what I am. I was not made to be the favored son. I was not made to be the ruling Steward. I am Lord of Ithilien." The steward's eyes narrowed and he looked down. "I do not want to have that slip away because of another foolish war." Spite laced Faramir's last words. "I will _see_ my beloved wife build her garden, I swear it."

Faramir's whispered words echoed loudly in the emptiness. Legolas looked up suddenly, focusing his eyes upon his friend with renewed vigor. "And I will help her make her garden bloom," he declared. The strength and determination in his voice surprised them both. Resolution claimed his glowing blue eyes as Faramir met his gaze. "I swear it."

A pact was made between them. It was a soft, quiet resolution that carried with it no fame or glory. The two straining spirits reached each other for a brief moment. When they parted, each was stronger for the exchange and the silence was no longer so awkward.

Faramir smiled genuinely. Then the steward sighed. Tiredly he rose to his feet. He stepped closer to Legolas and reached down a muddied hand, resting a warm palm on the Elf's shoulder. "You are not well," said the ranger. "Please. Sleep." They both felt it then, that queasy sort of tension, and it took command of the moment again. There was much Faramir wanted to say. Too much. Perhaps not enough, when it would come down to it. The man was struggling to reach out to the Elf, to offer solace, to demand that the other rest, to implore that the Legolas speak of his troubles. But, for whatever reason, the moment failed them both, and the tenuous connection they had moments before made was not strong enough to offer either the courage to face demons left unspoken. Faramir did not ask, and Legolas could not answer. There was nothing more.

Then the weight upon Legolas' shoulder was gone. Soft footsteps rustled the grass, growing gradually more distant. Legolas did not turn to watch Faramir leave, his eyelids drooping, his heart terribly heavy. Only when the steward was far from him did the thoughts race again through his mind. How weak he was! How childish and weak! The pain within poisoned him; how wonderful it would have been to release it! _You are nothing,_ spat his mind. _Nothing! They have taken your dignity. Wallow in the shadows, for it is where you belong now! Wallow alone in your misery!_

A hot tear escaped the corner of Legolas' eye, streaming down his pale face, streaking through the dirt. His stomach twisted in pangs of agony, and he thought for a moment he might be sick so great was his grief. Why could he not confide in his friends? So black was the truth that it strangled his light, and for all his want he could not relieve himself of its terrible burden. They would not judge him. They would think no less of him! _Aye, but you think already far too little of yourself. Aragorn dismissed you. Aragorn, he who calls himself your brother, ignored you. Pathetic child! Perhaps it is well such torment came to you. Do you not deserve to suffer for the choices you have made? Why drag forth demons better left to the night? You are chained to it. A puppet. You are nothing._

"_You are not well. Please. Sleep."_

_No._

"_Scream for me!"_

_No!_

Legolas jerked as again these violent thoughts shoved him away from sleep. Then they were silent. They were so unpredictable, one minute suffocating him in their strangling, grasp before turning and casting him aside like a useless prisoner. Like a discarded toy, designed for sadistic amusement, for use and abuse. _"I will give meaning to your now meaningless existence. You are mine. I have taken you."_

_Breathe. Fight. Do not fall._

The Elf did, sucking inside him a deep, shuddering breath. The air was cold to his insides, but he relished the chilly caress. His heart was beating frantically, madly pumping the fever around his body. Legolas pressed his clammy palm over his breast and was surprised momentarily at the lump under his clothes. Long, shaking fingers reached beneath the layers of his mud-splattered clothing and pulled free Fethra's pendant.

Holding the small gem in his open palm, Legolas lifted it, pulling the chain tighter about his neck. He gazed into the red stone as it spilled gentle heat and warmth over his filthy hand. As he did, peace came over him, and the wailing within him ceased. He lowered the tiny red stone into his palm and strokied it tiredly with his thumb. The repetitive motion was calming. He thought of Fethra, of her shining eyes watching him, of her laugh and voice. She loved him without question, without regret. She did not see the shadows forced upon his once vibrant spirit. She did not doubt his strength. His affection for the little girl emerged again from the shuddering knot of his heart. And when he did, it was as though the sun was peaking through ominous clouds, and the pain faded.

He had promised he would come back to her. He could not break his vow. Not to her.

Strength returned to his fingers, and calm came to his heart. Slipping the pendant back under his jerkin and tunic, he sought his knife and reached for the first of the many arrows that needed repair. He would need a full quiver to protect the people as he had sworn to Fethra. This would be the purpose he would make for himself. He did not care that some small, logical voice nattered in the back of his mind that such a task was beyond him, that he was too weak and sick and he was only becoming weaker and sicker. He had given the child his oath, and he had meant it.

He loved her too much to lie.

* * *

Legolas had watched the sunrise. Slowly it had crept above the edge of the world, spreading gentle and warm golden light upon the field. For the Elf it had once again ended a long night spent in restless thought and hurt. Blearily he had wondered how many more such dawns he would face before his body would simply support him no longer in its exhausted state. The panicked voice of his self-preservation had answered his bitter question. _As many as it must. I will never sleep again. Never._

The sunlight revealed sins the black night had previously hidden. The fog dispersed early in the morning, a warming breeze brushing across the field to blow away its ghostly remains. On either side there was a slew of bodies, the corpses sinking into the wetlands as though in a natural burial. Battle debris was everywhere, broken arrows protruding from soft soil, fallen swords and shields lying almost innocently amidst the grass. Over the River Celos there was no longer a bridge; only the legs of the stone structure now remained, the walkway itself pulverized by the stomping and pulling of the massive oliphaunts. The charred skeleton of the Easterlings' portable passage was also lying upon the bank, eaten through by the fire. The day was new but it was without peace. The land screamed an angry cry for the violence perpetrated upon it the night before. Blood painted the grass. Even the bright sun could not annihilate the shadow of death.

The Elf prince stood in the field, his arms at his side, his body still. The night had been long and hard indeed, for whatever disease had claimed his body afforded him little strength to combat the pressing demand for restful slumber. Though the hours had been lengthy and difficult, the sun had risen far too early. Arod had remained awake with him throughout the night, troubled by his reluctance to take reprieve. Silently the horse had watched his master's deft fingers wield the knife in repairing the arrows. The work was not overly exciting and somewhat tedious, but it had kept Legolas' mind focused enough to ward away the nightmares. When morning had come, he had risen to find his body miserably sore and dreadfully stiff. Muscles had refused to flex and his limbs would not bend. Never before had his flesh so pained him, and it greatly distressed him. Poor command over his body would lead to nothing but further harm. The ache in his chest and head had not abated over the night, and his nausea had only amplified. He cursed all the foul fates. Until this day he had never so desperately required sleep, and now was sleep utterly beyond his reach.

The army was slow in rousing. The battle the night before had drained many of them of their hope and endurance, and this day, though bright, warm, and pleasant, promised to be dark and dangerous. They faced the morning with little enthusiasm and low morale. The banners of their nations flew proud upon the field, but little patriotism graced their worried and deflated minds.

Gimli grunted softly as he came to stand beside Legolas. The Elf did not turn at his approach, his dull eyes staring blearily across the field toward the east. Neither spoke. The sounds of the troops moving about them filled the void, but it did not ease the hurt between them. Legolas was simply too tired to care much about the waves of pain his short companion was radiating, about the aura of concern that was nearly tangible in its potency. The archer's breath was hideously shallow and it was taking all his strength for him to remain still and quell the shaking of his figure. The sun reached toward them with a warm embrace, but the Elf felt nothing but cold and pain.

There were no words, because there was nothing to be said. Something hung on the air this morning, something foul and black. It was more than a simple threat from a physical enemy. This omen possessed a surreal quality, one that sent the body shuddering in terror and the mind shriveling in abhorrence. Danger like none they had ever before faced roamed, hunting for its victims, searching for its prize. There was inevitability to this grotesque and chilling premonition as well. The dawn seemed unreal, tinged as it was by this foreboding, by this dark dream. A nameless fear and hopeless destiny. The silence was almost fitting, for simple words would not undo it or prevent it. Perhaps nothing could change the course of the future.

And so the two friends stood, wondering at the sunrise, at the silence between them, at the hurt and fear left festering. Though the moment ended, it brought with it no consolation, no absolution, no completion. It carried with it only a hysterical cry.

"They come! My Lords, _they come!_"

The field exploded in chaos.

"Fortify the line!" cried Éomer. The king vaulted up onto Firefoot, the great horse snorting and stepping about in excitement. The soldiers rushed to follow the order as a rain of black arrows descended upon their camp. Men were struck as they awoke, and their lifeless bodies fell back into a bed of grass in a now eternal slumber. Quickly archers ran to the eastern front, stumbling in grogginess as they righted their bows and fitted arrows to them. Men from Harad joined Gondor and the Elves upon the line, and their forces released a return volley.

Arod was at Legolas' side before the Elf even thought to call for him. He helped Gimli to mount and then he climbed atop the beast himself, snatching up the reins. Troops rushed about in a show of running and stumbling, the warriors struggling to quickly form their companies. Commanders shouted, directing archers in a frenzied fire, hoping to slow the Easterlings' advance while the infantry rushed to prepare for battle. Arod lightly picked his way through the throng of fighters, driving past clambering men with great agility and elegance. Harsh screams shattered the peace of the morning. The eastern front was under siege.

Faramir was ahead, governing the defense eastern bank. Arod thundered closer, his hooves beating loudly against the firm soil. When they drew close enough, Legolas slid from his mount's saddle, landing heavily on his feet before sprinting towards Faramir. "How many?" he asked, grabbing his friend's arm.

The steward shook his head helplessly, dropping to his knees and pulling his Elven comrade down with him as a barrage of arrows struck the dirt around them. An Elven archer on the line collapsed with a blood-curdling cry, wicked black feathers sticking from his throat.

"Return fire!" bellowed Faramir, and Legolas pulled his bow from his back. He yanked an arrow from his quiver and set it to the string. Faramir collected from the fallen Elf a bow and arrows. The steward and the prince stood together, drawing back powerfully on the strings before releasing their shots into the charge of Easterlings pushing their way through the swamp. The volley from Gondor's forces struck down many of the advance, and they had time to fire again before the enemy's archers managed to return shots of their own.

Legolas scanned the approaching menace. "They are too few," he commented. "Far too few."

Sweat glistened on Faramir's brow. "Aye," agreed the ranger as he grabbed another fallen arrow. The tip was a bit bent from when it had rammed into the ground beside them, but it would do. The two stood again with the line, revealing themselves from the cover of the grasses. Legolas quickly took aim, his calm now easily enveloping him, his keen eyes narrowed as he sought a target. A breath later a foe fell in his approach, struck down by the Elf's quick reflexes and powerful bow.

Men rushed past them, creeping through the grass, pressing themselves as close to the ground as possible. The infantry was approaching quickly, fortifying the weakening line of archers. Rows and rows of troops surrounded Legolas and Faramir, the standards of Gondor and Harad waving in the morning breeze. The men knelt and took cover as piercing arrows fell all about them. The archers countered with a volley of their own, and Legolas stood languidly, firing like lightning striking the ground. Consciousness fell away as he stood and fired. With unnerving skill he picked off the approaching force, wasting not a breath or blink. Each move was calculated, each second flawlessly planned. Arrow after arrow left his great bow, joining the endless barrage assaulting the charging enemy.

When at last Gondor ceased its attack, the Easterlings were defeated. Silence came over the eastern front as the armored men that had survived the run through the swamp turned and retreated.

The soldiers cheered as the enemy fled. Legolas lowered his bow, confusion creasing his ageless face. A long moment escaped them, turning torturous with confusion and false elation, and the Elf felt Faramir shake his head beside him. The steward's jaw was set firm, his eyes burning in puzzled anger. Legolas' heart pulsed in dread. This was not right. Repelling that attack had been too simple, too easy. This was not right!

"_They charge from the south!"_

They had been tricked!

The minutes that followed were nothing short of absolute and utter chaos. Panic grabbed them and yanked them into motion. The Riders of Rohan, with Éomer in the lead, thundered across the plains in the distance, charging to meet the rush of the Easterling army. Legolas' eyes widened in dismay. The force that rushed onto the field was formidable; many lines of men raised their swords in a deep-throated cry, their gold armor glinting wickedly in the rising sun. The enemy swarmed onto the field in a great, glowing horde, flanking Gondor's eastern front and approaching from behind. He cursed their ill luck, their imprudent presumptions! How could they have been so foolhardy, so arrogant? They had easily fallen for this ruse!

Faramir was already atop Hasufel, the massive gray horse holding still for once and allowing his master to easily mount him. The steward raised his voice over the din, shouting madly, "Protect the town at all costs! Hold the plain! Hold steady!" Then the infantry turned and charged to meet their opponents.

Legolas' hand tightened about the arc of his bow as he sprinted back to where he had left Gimli and Arod. The Dwarf urged his speed, the stout warrior's voice tight in apprehension and excitement. The Elf swung himself up into the saddle and a moment later they were racing into battle.

The two forces struck. The noise was deafening. Swords slammed together, armor clanking as men smashed into each other and fell. Bowstrings hummed. A muted throb of screaming and shouting filled the air, and over it Legolas could hardly hear his own heart. The Haradrim cried mantras of pride and nationality as they fought against their kindred, their hatred violent and brutal, driving them in a furious battle. The banners meshed, dancing on the field, while their hosts made war upon each other.

Legolas drew back on his bow, letting loose another deadly arrow. It struck an attacker in the eye, and the man fell with a yelp and a spurt of blood. Gimli gave a hearty cry behind him as the Dwarf hacked off a man's head with a mighty swing of his axe. Arod kicked at the Easterlings surrounding him, furiously ramming his powerful hind legs into one unfortunate soul. They plowed their way through the mess of the war, Arod quick to act and avoid the swipes of the Easterlings' wicked blades.

The ground shook suddenly, and Legolas ripped around in the saddle. Ulpheth let loose a throaty cry, his words rough and foreign, as he ordered his men. The Elf did not understand the shouts themselves, but their purpose was clear enough, for the massive oliphaunts were released to rage upon the enemy. The gray beasts howled and bleated their fury, pounding into the soil and utterly pulverizing anything under their huge feet. Men squealed shrilly as they were crushed. There were only four of the creatures, but that was certainly enough to do massive damage to the opposing side. One of them whipped its head about madly, skewering victims in with gruesome force on its gigantic tusks.

But the Elf was forced to turn his attention back to the battle, and he pulled another arrow from his quiver and set it to his bow. Arod reared and whinnied loudly, barely avoiding the swipe of a sharp sword. Gimli howled his fury and grabbed Legolas, narrowly missing an elbow to the jaw as the Elf pulled back quickly on his bow. The arrow struck the man threatening Arod in the head, and he fell back into his comrades, quite dead.

The battle went on for endless minutes. Spears, swords, and knives grew bloody, and corpses littered the ground, tripping those still struggling to maintain their lives. Across the once peaceful field was a great sea of warring men. Neither side could afford to retreat. There was hatred and anger enough to drive each warrior in his quest for triumph, for blood, for retribution. Swords sang brightly in the sun and arrows whizzed everywhere haphazardly. There was no breath, no thought, no words. Only the battle thrived, and it did so with driving violence. Each man was only a pawn in its quest for blood, in its thirst for destruction. Each soldier was but an unwilling instrument.

Legolas turned in the saddle, grunting as his shot broke uselessly against the breastplate of a foe. Angry, he drew his sword and smacked the attacker's driving blade away before it could reach the flesh of his abdomen. Then he twisted his wrist and slammed his own weapon into the other's shoulder, causing the Easterling to drop his sword in pain and stumble back. Suddenly there came a deafening roar from behind him and the ground shimmied. Grabbing Arod's reins, he urged the horse to turn, and then his eyes grew frantic.

The Easterlings were bringing down the oliphaunts. He knew well that it was naïve and foolish to think the animals invincible. Their hide was thick, and no simple arrow or sword could pierce it. However, the Easterlings had developed tactics to render such a destructive and powerful force ineffective. Ropes had been tied around the feet of one of the colossal beasts, and fifteen or twenty men pulled upon them. The effect was immediate and terrifying. The animal could not stop its momentum as it instinctively tried to escape the restraint, and it tripped, loosing its balance. A great shadow appeared over the men below as the oliphaunt tipped.

"_Run!"_ screamed Faramir over the din, his eyes wide and horrified as the crushing weight descended upon him and his company. Legolas' breath hitched in his throat as he watched, paralyzed by shock and fright. A swift kick to Hasufel's side was enough to drive the horse out from under the collapsing hulk. Barely did the steward escape. Screams riddled the air followed by a bone-crunching thud as the mass of the animal hit the ground. Those less fortunate were crushed. Right after the Easterlings rushed the fallen and furious animal, stabbing and hacking at it.

Gimli breathed a shocked curse behind him. There was little time for more than that, though, for the battle raged on and afforded the careless and distracted only a quick death. The Dwarf slashed and stabbed at Easterlings as Legolas pushed Arod through the mob of men towards Faramir. The Elf ducked as an arrow whizzed overhead, swinging his sword around and deflecting a blow directed at his side. Red gore dripped from his blade as it severed the man's hand from his arm. Gimli blocked another stab aimed for the Elf's thigh, but Legolas had no time to thank his friend, for there were far too many men to waste a moment on words of gratitude.

The oliphaunts were enraged now, stomping and lashing out at anything and everything unfortunate enough to be close to them. Harsh treatment had thinned their patience, and like any threatened animal they responded indiscriminately. Friend and foe alike were mashed by their crushing feet. Ropes were thrown, and the men holding them were killed. Those Southrons atop the oliphaunts fell as they were struck by wayward arrows. Legolas notched a shot quickly and took precise aim. His arrow flew true, severing one of the cords the Easterlings were using to pull down an oliphaunt. The men fell back in surprise as their rope suddenly went slack, and the beast happened to wheel about at that exact moment and step on many of them with a terrific squish.

Finally Arod reached Hasufel. Faramir appeared slightly ashen-faced from his close brush with death before, but his eyes was ablaze with desperate rage. "This does not go well," he declared to Legolas, holding his sword aloft. The fine steel blade dripped in red. "They are too many!"

Suddenly an arrow struck Hasufel in the right buttock, and the horse gave a shrill cry and reared. Faramir yelped in surprise as he tumbled from the saddle, his blade clanging uselessly to the ground. The steward hit the earth hard. The Easterlings swarmed about them, silent and soulless, their wicked weapons glinting hungrily as they beheld their prize.

"Faramir!" cried Gimli, horror taut in his voice. Legolas quickly slid from Arod, stabbing his sword into a man advancing on Faramir as he did so. The Elf whirled, yanking free his shining blade and nearly catching another assailant with the motion. The man jumped back, but he was not fast enough to avoid the wrath of Gimli's screaming axe. The Dwarf roared mightily atop Arod, furious that these monsters would take advantage of a fallen man.

Legolas skidded to his knees beside the prone steward, pushing aside the body of a dead soldier. Faramir was already sitting up, winded but apparently not seriously hurt. He held his side as he crawled for his sword, the Elf's steadying hand upon his arm. "We must get away from here," breathed Legolas harshly. The steward nodded, wheezing a bit, as he grabbed for Hasufel's reins. The steed was skittishly stepping about, obviously quite rattled and in pain. Legolas wasted no time, though, stepping around and ripping the arrow from horse's rear. Hasufel cried his pain, but Faramir was quick to comfort him. The wound was not serious.

The steward hauled himself less than elegantly into the saddle. Legolas pushed his way back to Arod, cutting and killing. Gimli grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, helping him up. Panic drove them all, surging through their pained and frightened bodies. Legolas righted himself quickly, but not fast enough to protect himself against a slash across his thigh. The Elf groaned as the world blurred in pain and tears, and he immediately pressed a shaking hand to the wound. Blood gushed through his fingers. The laceration was not deep, but it was enough to shatter his weakening resolve. His calm began to fail him, and with its abandonment the ache of his sick body grew suddenly ten-fold stronger.

"Fall back!" cried Faramir hoarsely.

"My Lord!" came a desperate cry. A brown horse that bore the banner of Rohan pushed closer to them. Upon it was Elfhelm, bloodied, gasping, and terrified. "My Lord! My Lord! King Éomer has been wounded!"

Shock like freezing water washed over Legolas, and his heart nearly halted in its frantic beat. _No! No!_ Faramir's face grew even paler, starkly white in contrast to the dirt and blood upon it. His mouth fell open, but no sound escaped his lips. Legolas felt his fingers grip his sword tighter until the hilt hurt his hand. _Please let this not be true! We cannot lose him!_

"How badly?" the steward finally managed.

Elfhelm shook his head numbly. "I do not know, sir. We must retreat. We have suffered grievous losses!"

Retreat. It was the only option. More and more Easterlings flooded onto the blood-soaked field. They could not continue to hold this land, not when so many had already died. Not with Éomer injured. Indecision tore Faramir's stern countenance. The consequences of resigning this battle seemed insignificant to the repercussions of continuing it. Then the steward released a short breath, shaking his head. His eyes spoke of his absolute despair. Taking a deep breath, he cried loudly over the din,_"Retreat!"_

The order spread like wildfire through the army. The infantry scrambled to back away and disengage the enemy. Panic ruled the moment as men lowered their guards in shock, only to be killed or knocked to the ground. Echoes of Faramir's scream went up and down the field. With a frenzy that was absolutely uncontrollable, the forces of Gondor turn and ran towards the eastern front where the only bridge across the rivers yet stood.

Legolas grabbed his bow, turning around in the saddle to shoot behind him as Arod began to follow Hasufel in a full gallop. The arrow caught a pursuing man in the neck, and he fell, disappearing under the crush of the stampede. Another shot whizzed past them, dangerously close to Arod's head. Startled, Legolas reached into his quiver for another arrow and turned around sharply. Quickly he fitted it and lifted his bow, drawing back on the string strongly.

And the world exploded in pain.

Something in his left side tore in sheer agony. Warmth spread quickly along his ribs, and all the breath fled his lungs. His mouth opened in a soundless cry as the excruciating hurt jolted over his hapless body like lightning. Whatever meager calm that had before held back the agony finally snapped, and his body was suddenly not his own. There was no air. The world spun and spun, and then he was falling.

Falling.

He hit something hard suddenly, and his head struck. Now he was staring at serene blue. A million tiny fingers tickled his skin. Vaguely he heard a great throb of noise, but it seemed terribly far away. Words filled his ears, but he could make no sense of them. "Legolas! Legolas! Curse you, foul beast! Turn around! Go back! _Legolas!_"

The pain faded. No longer was it stabbing into him with fiery rage. It became dull, dull and distant. Some part of his muddled mind realized he was on the ground, and that the blue was the clear sky above him, the tickling fingers were the leaves of grass below him. But this meant little, his mind lethargic and unable to understand. He felt hot all over, as though a blaze had claimed him, and he turned his head a bit. The cool soil leeched a bit of the heat from his cheek.

There were people beside him. More voices. "What happened? Was he hit?"

"I do not know! I did not see!"

He thought to move, to speak, but for some inexplicable reason the intention could not become action. It was as though his mind had suddenly disconnected from his body, leaving him detached and his limbs useless and leaden. Something was pulling on his neck. The pendant had come free, it seemed, from his clothes, and it lay atop his breast. He watched it, entranced by the play of red on his chest. So long did he look, for it had taken the attention of his numb mind, and struggling was beyond his means. Sight and sound. Reality and nightmare.

Life and death.

"Legolas? Legolas! Look at me! Ai, what has happened to him?"

That voice was strangely recognizable. A spark of fear ignited within him, and he pulled finally from the lulling sparkle of the gem. By that time, though, it was too late. Darkness encroached upon his vision. By a great amount of will he was able to force his gaze up. The blue sky was replaced with a blurry, familiar face.

_Faramir…?_

He knew not if he spoke. Oblivion reached up and grabbed him. He could do nothing as it yanked him down. Blackness took him and devoured the last of his will. He slipped away, abandoning the struggle.

There was nothing of worth for which to fight, anyway, and he was just too tired.


	16. Slings and Arrows

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN: SLINGS AND ARROWS**

Running. His feet could not carry him fast enough. His body pulsed and pounded as he thundered through the darkened halls of his father's manor, the sound of his slamming steps echoing in the shadows. Breathing. His lungs heaved, straining to deliver enough air to his racing body. He gasped as he rounded a corner, skidding and nearly falling but somehow managing to maintain his balance and continue his flight. Pounding. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, terror and panic driving it in its mad pace. Fire spread over his body as it strained, pushing all the speed it could from muscles and bones and flesh. Crying. Tears bled from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks, bleeding into his flying hair as he ran. His brothers were weeping. None met his gaze as he stopped his frantic sprint, coming to a breathless halt outside the royal chambers. Shameful eyes refused to meet his own. That more than anything confirmed the horrible fear coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"They can do nothing." _Nothing._

He could not bear the thought of it. Cold hands grabbed the knobs of the double doors and twisted and pulled. The heavy wooden slabs came open with a mighty yank, and he shot inside.

"It is too late." _No._

His father's empty eyes turned upon him. The blue orbs, often ageless and powerful, were now weak with tears and rage. For a moment he stood still, unable to move, transfixed by his father's lifeless stare. Perhaps he sought denial, but if there had been any hope, his king's cold expression destroyed it. There was no hope, no chance. There was no way to make this not true.

Then his father looked away, his regal stature slumped piteously as his hair fell about his face. Never before had he seen the king so defeated, so utterly devastated. It terrified him in ways he had not previously thought possible. His breath hitched in his throat as the elder Elf moved away, turning hateful eyes to the floor. Then he could see the bed, swathed in darkness and death. His heart stopped. One of the healers turned to him, and the other's face broke in grief and reluctance. "I am sorry," whispered the Elf. "She is gone."

_Gone._

_No!_

He stumbled forth, wobbly legs suddenly refusing to support his weight much less operate with any sort of grace, and he fell to his knees at the bedside. There was red covering the linens, soaking through the sheets and spilling to the floor. The horror touched his eyes, invading his innocent mind, and the world shattered. He had only been gone but a few minutes! He had only left with the patrol to hunt down the Orcs that had attacked… But a few minutes! Only that!

But he was too late. Tears came in a great, hot deluge. Sobs welled up in his throat as his vision blurred. Desperately his heart pounded, his spirit struggling in violent grief to somehow change this crushing fact. His young form shook in powerful sorrow, his restraint failing him.

A pale hand rested limply in the bed. Blood covered slender, elegant fingers, the same fingers that had braided his hair for him when he was child, the same fingers that had wiped away his tears, the same fingers that had soothed bumps and tickled him into laughter. Without thought he reached for it with his own shaking hand, taking the bloodied, lifeless digits into his own. His thumb swept down the soft skin. He could not make his eyes look beyond that hand. Sucking in a deep breath was all he could do to stifle a scream of utter despair.

"Mother," he whispered.

The hand did not tighten about his. There was no breath from the still body. A memory flitted across his stricken mind. He was but a child, creeping about in the earliest hours of morning, coming up beside the bed of his slumbering parents. His father had not allowed his sons to venture into their private bedchamber, but it had been his begetting day, and he was too excited to remain in solitude in his own room. His mother had only smiled at him, reaching down silently to pull his wriggling little self into bed with her. She had smelled of leaves and flowers, her long body warm and soft against his, her embrace strong and comforting. How he loved her! He had failed her.

"_Mother!"_ he wailed.

All faded from him as he cried, long and hard. Sense slipped away, leaving him reeling in blackness that was profound and fathomless. Eventually even the violent rage, the endless grief, and the crushing guilt abandoned his tormented body. He sank into the void, alone. Empty. There was nothing. _Nothing._

* * *

Voices came to him. They sounded terribly distant and muffled, and for what seemed to be forever he simply ignored them. The hold unconsciousness had upon him was simply too comforting, for here there was no pain and no fear. He was content to remain within its warm apathy, tired of obligation and ambition. It seemed terribly decadent and selfish to desire such a thing, but he could not deny the want of his weary and bitter heart. So he simply disregarded all perception, unwilling to acknowledge that life existed beyond this peaceful emptiness.

But the voices persisted. Soft they were, but slowly they gained volume and insistence, poking their whispering way into the shrouds of indifference. His senses began to break from the void, and the mesh of sound slowly separated into words.

"It is too late."

"It cannot be!"

"Too much of it has infected him. We can do nothing."

The void slipped away, fear and confusion forcing his lethargic mind away from the solace of silence. There was no returning to the quiet now, and slowly things returned to him. Sudden realization stabbed through him, leaving a dull agony in its wake, and he fought to regain awareness. His body throbbed and his head felt as though it was stuffed with wool. Where was he? When was he? The pain allowed him no logical thought, stealing from him his will to face his surroundings. It became too powerful an adversary, beating down his weak spirit, and easily he resigned himself to the abyss of unconsciousness again.

"Legolas?"

Comfort was firmly snatched from him by the cruel hands of reality. Harshly he was shoved from the peaceful oblivion, and suddenly he felt and heard and smelled and tasted. His eyes snapped open. At first he saw nothing but blinding light, and his head pounded powerfully in fiery hurt at the sudden pain. He groaned, clenching his teeth to combat the driving nausea clawing at his throat. Only when the wave of excruciating agony subsided did the blurriness of his vision abate.

"He is waking. Thank Eru! He wakes!" There was more talk, hushed and frantic, and then the sound of running footsteps. A cool hand fell upon his brow. Another wrapped in his own. A pale face framed by long dark locks appeared over him. The person's skin was terribly white, bright and fair, glowing majestically. Pink lips pulled into a gentle smile, blue eyes loving but terribly worried. They glistened in unshed tears.

He recognized the face slowly. "Arwen?" he rasped. It hurt to speak, so dry was his mouth. His throat veritably burned, and his teeth ached mercilessly. Had he been of a clearer state of mind he might have noted the utter peculiarity of how he felt; sickness so strong and debilitating was a frightening unknown to him, and he was simply overwhelmed by these alien and distressing experiences. Thirst tormented him, though, and he could think of nothing else but alleviating it. "Water."

The slender hand holding his squeezed, and another head materialized. Golden hair was pulled from a white face and fastened behind a long neck to prevent the locks from interfering in work. Éowyn. She had a cup of clear liquid, and she leaned over him. He wanted to sit up, but his leaden body would not heed his commands. Distress claimed his face, distress that Arwen immediately noticed. Together with Éowyn, the two women helped him raise his head, the queen laying an arm beneath his shoulders in support as the Lady of Rohan tipped the cup to his dry, cracked lips.

Legolas drank quickly. The cool water felt glorious upon his tongue, gently assuaging the parched agony of his mouth. "Easy," Éowyn admonished softly. Tender was the press of her cold fingertips against his burning cheek as she pulled away the now empty vessel.

The Elf fell back gasping, struggling to fill heaving lungs. Darkness pulled at his spirit once more, singing to him an easing lullaby that promised safety and succor. His body shook in pain, but he only gritted his teeth and tried his best to disregard the hurt. A need to understand suddenly fueled his battered body, and he would not rest until his questions were answered. Wild eyes glanced around the room. He recognized it immediately to be his quarters in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. His bed was firm and soft beneath his throbbing back. Night was soon in coming, for long, afternoon shadows stretched across the room as the setting sun peeked through the window. The air was fresh and crisp, but somehow at once it caressed pleasantly and cut coldly. How had he come to be here? He grew frustrated at his addled thoughts, since they offered him no definitive answers and left him lost and frightened. This utter tumult of terror and confusion vexed him beyond measure. Finally, after struggling frantically against wisps of visions, memory that was once disjointed and sluggish in formed a cohesive and comprehensible timeline and became clear. The echoes of a raging battle slammed against the confines of his skull. Emyn Nimsîr. The field. Gimli. Faramir. Éomer. "Éomer!" he gasped, writhing against restraining hands.

Arwen shared a worried look with Éowyn before shushing her suffering friend. The queen grabbed his hand and lifted it, her touch calming and firm, as she pushed him gently down. "He is well, Legolas. Lay still."

The sudden action left him wheezing in dizziness and pain. "Gimli… and Faramir… Where are they?"

"Here, Elf," came a worried rumble from beyond Arwen. Gimli neared the bed slowly. His form was now clean of the mud and blood that had previously coated it. His rusty hair fell all about his shoulders. His ruddy face was scrunched in a dismayed frown, his eyes lowered and black in unspeakable grief.

Legolas licked his lips for they had become dry again. The simplest of acts drained him of his energy. Knowing his friends were alive and healthy after that harrowing fight was enough to deprive him of further concentration, and when he let go of his will, the pain rushed to consume him like a predator finally catching its hapless meal. Suddenly he shook and bent with spasms, every muscle of his body contracting violently. There was no escape from the torment, the agony blazing as it raced up and down him, and he could do naught but simply ride out its torturous waves. His heart boomed in his ears, and he could barely breathe.

Arwen's face broke in helpless grief as Legolas' grip about her hand turned painfully tight. "Hold on, my friend," she whispered in Elvish. "Estel has gone to fetch stronger medicine. He will be back soon. Peace."

The words hardly registered. The pain was so terrible that all thought, all sense abandoned the suffering shell that had become his body. It was as though his spirit was beating against the confines of his flesh, fighting to free itself and seek refuge from the affliction. Hot tears leaked from eyes squeezed shut, and his breath came in horribly short gasps. Whimpers escaped through clenched teeth. He felt himself being lifted gently, and softness came behind him. Vaguely he realized he was being settled into somebody's lap, most likely for comfort. He struggled weakly, but another set of cool hands grabbed his wrists and forced him to be still.

Gentle fingers combed through his unbound hair. "Peace, Legolas. Look at me. Do not think of the pain. Please!" Arwen's melodic voice somehow penetrated the blaze of his suffering. Desperate for anything beyond hurt, he grabbed her with all his floundering strength, struggling violently to simply do as she asked. Blue eyes entrenched in fever and delirium focused blearily on her beautiful face, and she smiled thinly. "Yes. Just look at me, and it will pass. Éowyn, a damp cloth for his fever rages." A breath later a wet compress wiped gently down his face. The cool, rough texture of the swatch was somehow extremely pleasant. Arwen was speaking again, her voice gaining a frantic edge. "Go, Gimli, and find Aragorn. Tell him to hurry!"

"My Lady, what ails him so?" Gimli's voice was hard in barely contained rage and despair.

A shaking sigh. "It is the poison. Please, Master Dwarf, go with all speed." There was silence for a moment, and then a firm harm came to rest momentarily on Legolas' lower leg. The sound of running came after that, loud and quick.

A muddled thought came to him. _Poison?_ But he was unable to hold it, and it slipped back into the haze his consciousness had become. Another wave of the pain hit him then, and his fingers tightened instinctively in Arwen's dress. The queen held him closer, one arm wrapped about his chest, the other caressing his sweat dampened hair. Éowyn's long fingers undid the ties of his loose tunic, spreading the white cloth wide to free his neck and chest. Legolas jerked, squinting and rasping for breath, as the dripping cloth touched his bare skin. The pain took him, squeezing his heart tighter and tighter, and he could only moan while Arwen whispered comfort to him. The agony stole his world, piece by piece. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to scream his misery. But his body would not respond. Unconsciousness had become impish, remaining just out of his reach no matter how he strained for it, teasing and taunting him but never coming close enough to relieve his suffering. There was nothing to feel but the hurt, and he was drowning in it.

Finally the ruthless demon released him. Legolas choked on his sobs as he weakly fell back against Arwen. His eyes slipped shut as exhaustion came over him. He heard voices, but he could make no sense of them. The struggle had stripped his mind of his sense of self and left his wailing spirit mauled and bloodied. "My Queen, he is fading."

A cool palm pressed over Legolas' brow. His half-lidded gaze refused to focus on the blurry face above him. "We must draw the fever from his head. Help me raise him, Éowyn." Arwen said more, but Legolas did not comprehend her rushed words. His body was lifted; he had no strength to struggle despite the dazed fear that came over him. He only moaned helplessly as each of his arms was draped over the shoulders of another. Éowyn wrapped her hand about the ill Elf's waist, her face pale and distressed, as the two carefully helped Legolas stand.

"No," the archer managed to gasp. Bile rose up in the back of his throat as the room spun and spun. "Please!"

Arwen's voice was soothing as she steadied him. Blue eyes glowed brightly in love and worry. "It is alright," she assured him, her tone soft. She brushed the hair from his pale face. "You are safe."

There was a murmur of sound, and then they were moving. Legolas stumbled, his body leaden and heavy, but Éowyn and Arwen supported him. Then they were undressing him. The Elf leaned heavily into Éowyn's embrace as Arwen pulled his loose breeches down, leaving him only in his underclothes. Nightmare meshed with reality, and her friendly, sisterly touch morphed hideously into the groping fingers of a renewed terror. Though horror claimed him, he was unable to act, his body detached from his writhing spirit. He stood, mute and weeping, as he endured again the torment.

Cold air struck his bare chest with the strength of a sharp kick, and he crumpled in Éowyn's arms. The woman stumbled under his weight, but Arwen was quick help her with the burden. With his clothing gone, the horror of his wounds was striking. His left side and chest were mottled messes of purple and red, inflamed and bruised tenderly. The puncture wounds on his shoulder from the battle at Cair Andros so many days past were now swollen and bloody. If they had ever healed at all, it was not readily apparent. A mess of scrapes and cuts covered his figure from his fall from Arod. The slash across his thigh had obviously been tended before, but blood still seeped from the stitched skin. The worst of it was a gaping hole in his right abdomen, for it was hideous and he could not remember receiving it. Had he been struck in the battle? As if angry that he had previously been blissfully ignorant of it, the vicious wound began to pulse in heated fury. The pain dissuaded him from trying to sort through the morass of memory, and he just accepted this wound as though it were a simple matter. Compared to the illness coursing through his veins, it was just another hurt.

Legolas drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that he was being clumsily lifted. Then he struck ice. He snapped from his delirious stupor as numbing pain spread all over his body, screaming his distress. It took a moment for his muddled senses to correctly identify the source of the hurtful cold.

He shivered violently as he was made to sink into the lukewarm bath water. The liquid was heavy and harsh to his skin and he wheezed, unable to draw breath enough to sob. Arwen knelt beside him, pushing the sleeves of her rose gown up in a rather unladylike fashion. She pulled the mass of Legolas' hair from the water and gently set it outside the tub. She spoke to Éowyn in a hushed tone, asking her friend to acquire some type of herb and hot water. The Lady of Ithilien nodded curtly before rising from her crouch with a swish of blue skirts.

Eventually the cool water proved to be pleasant. The haze slowly cleared from his head as Arwen tenderly washed his burning skin with a soft cloth. Strange ideas popped up from the murk within him, the random flow of his thoughts grotesque and pointless. It took a great deal of his will to concentrate on anything. He conjured up whatever energy and courage he could, though, for this matter abruptly attained great import. "Fethra?" he whispered faintly, weakly grasping Arwen's hand as she carefully cleaned the dried blood from his left shoulder.

She offered him a comforting smile and squeezed his fingers. "You need not worry," answered the Elf as she resumed her ministrations. "She is well. Lady Ioreth cares for her still." Relief cascaded down his back in chills as the heat began to leave his head. Fatigue left him shivering. Now unconsciousness abandoned its mulish games and opened its arms to his weary spirit. His eyes shut again.

Time passed without his recollection. Impalpable sensations whirled ceaselessly about him, as if he was detached from the world and beyond its workings. There was the opening of the door. A winded, deep tone. Softer replies. Painful quiet. "Legolas, you must wake to drink this," came a man's concerned voice. A cup was tipped to his lax lips, and a warm, foul-tasting liquid spilled into his mouth. He vaguely recalled coughing and choking, swallowing the repugnant stuff only because he was given no other choice. Soft hands lifted him. He was moved again and patted dry. He was dressed in clean and fresh-smelling clothes were loose and comfortable upon his body.

Then he was returned to his soft, warm bed. The bath and the medicine had eased his pain enough to allow the last of his thoughts to quiet. Tender lips caressed his brow as he was settled into the blankets and pillows. From the world he finally escaped, slipping into a soundless and sightless void where not even the pain could reach him.

* * *

When Legolas again awoke, his mind was not so overthrown. His eyelids felt heavy and stubborn, but the whine of his conscience refused to submit the needs of his body any longer. He forced the comforting oblivion of rest aside and swam through the deep and endless black, seeking to be free from the restraining holds of sleep. Questions he had before ignored now needled him, demanding his attention, screaming for resolution. That more than anything tore him from the void, and after some moments spent shifting in that state between dream and reality, he finally returned to the world.

The Elf at first saw nothing aside from shadows punctuated by the flickering of golden and yellow light. There was the sound of crackling and popping, of wood snapping angrily as fire devoured it. Soft whispering came to him. Then he began to feel. His body ached terribly. Though now it was without the violence of earlier, the dull agony claimed every inch of him. His side throbbed, his leg pulsed, and his stomach felt crushed by the angry wound upon his belly. The pain was slow to settle to a reasonable level, its initial blast harsh and taxing. Only when he could tolerate it did he again open eyes that he had squeezed shut. This time energy and frustration forced him into action.

A dark form rested in a chair beside his bed. "Arwen?" he croaked softly, disgusted by the rough sound of his own voice. The hunched shadow did not move. Legolas struggled to sit up, but his body hardly heeded his call. His lethargy and weakness upset him terribly, but he only blinked back the frustrated tears that filled his eyes. He would hide in shadow no longer. "Arwen!"

There came a sharp of intake of breath. "Aragorn, he awakes!" The Elf turned his head sharply at the unexpected voice, surprise rushing over him and leaving him dizzy. Gimli stumbled stiffly from his chair and quickly came to stand at Legolas' bedside. The Dwarf's eyes twinkled in teary relief. "Aragorn!"

The bent figure in the chair raised its head tiredly. At seeing Legolas' awakening, the shadow shot forward, bursting into the light of the warm fire that burned in the room's hearth. Aragorn's face was ragged and weary, but his gaze immediately shone in newfound ease. "Legolas," breathed the ranger weakly in surprise. The man knelt beside the bed.

Legolas swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth enough to speak properly. "What has happened?"

"Gimli, get him some water," ordered Aragorn softly. The Dwarf seemed reluctant to turn away from the bed for even a moment, so strong was his worry over his Elven friend. He stood and went to the tray upon the desk where the water pitcher and glasses had been left. Aragorn moved closer and laid his hand on Legolas' forehead. "What do you remember?" asked the man gently. Something frightening and unusual was haunting his gray eyes, pushing to the surface every so often before again hiding behind relief and brotherly affection.

Legolas fumbled to make sense of his muddled thoughts. Though things were still not terribly clear, at the moment his lucidity permitted him faculty enough to sort through dream and truth and designate each appropriately. Gimli returned with the glass of water, and with the help of his friends, the Elf prince managed to sit up enough in bed to drink the cool liquid. Legolas squinted. "I recall Emyn Nimsîr. The Easterlings… they had orchestrated a ploy, and we fell to their cunning. There was a great fight… in the center of the field. Faramir fell, and Éomer was wounded." The Elf's face grew taut in painful remembrance, his eyes distant with the troublesome thoughts. "We were forced to retreat…" The task grew difficult; so little was clear to him! All he could be certain of was the pain, for that had been his only constant, his only reminder of life. "I… I am not sure."

"You were hit with an arrow," Aragorn supplied sadly. His eyes shimmered in the unsteady light. "Faramir pulled you atop Hasufel. The army fled and returned to Minas Tirith. Many died." The king's voice was strained by unspoken rage. "Éomer was struck by a spear, but he is well now. The wound was not overly serious. He rests easily."

This was so much information. Legolas felt lost in the quick words spilling from his friend's tongue. "And Emyn Nimsîr?"

Gimli exhaled slowly, sharing a dark, knowing look with Aragorn. "Those monsters did not touch it. It was all a trap. Those vile demons! Have they no honor, no sense of virtue in battle… no pride?" The short creature's accent made his rough words deep and vicious, his hatred powerful and consuming.

Legolas simply could not believe such a thing possible. Anger rolled over him, driving frustrated energy into limp, unresponsive limbs. Frustration and shame burned him. How could they have been so foolish? It had all been a terrible deception, and they had unwittingly acted the pawns. He fumed silently, the blackness of the oppressive night matching his mood. "Why would they do such a thing?" he finally asked, lifting burning eyes to his friends. "What did they gain?"

Aragorn sighed, bothered by the mere thought of the matter. "That we could not unravel. Emperor Holis seems as utterly perplexed as we are. The Haradrim lost nearly all they sent in the fight. Holis wondered if perhaps they hoped that… I be part of the war party." The king sighed, clearly frustrated and disgusted. "They know much of us and our nation, it seems, and they anticipated that I would want to join the battle. The attack was a chance to flush the foolish King of Gondor into the open." Aragorn refused to meet Legolas' eyes, his own gaze averted in furious shame. "It was only by some stroke of luck that that law prevented me from leaving Minas Tirith."

Legolas sensed his friend's strange melancholy. "We are fortunate that you heeded it," commented the Elf. Though his voice was weak, he meant for the words to comfort his forlorn friend. Aragorn did not turn to him, though, and the ranger's fist curled tightly into the blankets upon the bed. Legolas' heart sped in confusion and a bit of fear. His eyes widened, his breath becoming short in aching lungs. A droplet of water fell slowly from Aragorn's hidden face and struck the sheets. The sight stabbed Legolas with urgent despair. Had something happened? "What? What pains you so? Is Faramir…"

"No," Gimli murmured, his own voice thick with emotion. The Dwarf turned away his face when the Elf sought to analyze it for answers.

This was becoming too much for Legolas, and the Elf slumped weakly when his tired body refused to support him any longer. His frustrated and angry gaze went back and forth between his two friends. A sudden thought occurred to him. His heart sped in painful worry. Hazy memories floated about his riled mind, and he began to doubt whether or not he had truly heard Arwen assure him of Fethra's safety. It seemed real enough, but certainty could not come to him. He recalled so little with any amount of clarity. Had he dreamt it? Could he have dreamt it? Would his mind have conjured up such a lie to ease the suffering upon a soul already breaking with sorrow?

"You are dying, Legolas."

Silence.

At first he had not heard Aragorn's soft words, so entrenched in doubt and fear was he over Fethra's well-being. The sounds carried no meaning, entering his head but producing no sense of purpose or substance. Then he breathed, and in that instant, it struck him. The air left his lungs, the blood left his heart, and his mind fumbled to understand. He was so utterly shocked and terrified that he could do nothing but deny. His lips moved, noise erupting from his dry throat. "What? What did you say?" That was nonsense. He had heard. He had heard all too clearly. But his heart allowed him no other reaction. This could not be true! Surely Aragorn was jesting, or if not, over-reacting. Surely this was but one more nightmare, one more crack of his sanity, one more moment of paranoid harassment! He turned imploring eyes upon his friend, hoping, _begging_ for some iota of evidence that would support his denial. Aragorn was wrong. He was simply wearied by all that had happened and had made a mistake…

But Aragorn did not speak. He did not turn. He did not even breathe.

There was no mistake.

It was true.

Legolas did not speak for a long time. Thought abandoned him, his will leaving him with each shuddering breath. Everything was painfully steady for the first time in days. The world had closed about him, leaving only this one fact. There was no doubt, no need to question, no other choice. There was nothing over which to spend restless nights contemplating. Uncertainty. Hesitation. What good were these things against such truth? There were no weapons with which he could combat it, nothing that he might bear against the strength of fate. Crushing and final, it could not be changed.

With such a realization arrived the panic, strong and swift. It took him, and his spirit raged against the injustice. His breaths came faster and faster until he was panting mindlessly. Denial offered him nothing but false security. Defiance would deliver naught but exhaustion. He was helpless. Helpless!

A desperate sob broke from his lips and he tasted salty tears. Pain came then, pain like nothing he had ever before experienced. But this was not the hurt of bruises or lacerations or broken bones. This was a blow to his soul, to everything he was as an Elf. His kind was immortal! Never should such an end come upon their endless life! This was not a pain he understood. Normally he was a master at controlling his suffering, at riding the ebbing tides of hurt to remain strong, powerful, and capable. Slowly over these days had that ability been stripped from him, and now, now when he was faced with the darkest hour of his life, he had nothing left with which to defend himself. Everything he knew was shifting, falling, breaking. Everything he had was fading and useless. Everything he was…

_Deny. It is all you can do. This is false! Deny!_

"No," he moaned. "Please, Aragorn! Why would you say such a thing?"

Tears spilled from his friend's shameful eyes. A shaking breath rattled between Aragorn's lips. The man's mouth hung open, but from it no sound issued. It was just as well; words could not change this truth anymore than they could ease Legolas' agony. A terrible quiet came over the three friends, dark and vast, and there was nothing but tears to fill it. Gimli's wet face was turned down, as though he did not want Legolas to find confirmation of the truth in his dark eyes. Aragorn refused to look at him. No one breathed. Only the fire snapped and cracked, and its noise was incredibly loud and violent in the stillness. How easily it destroyed something once strong and ageless. How simply it ripped flesh from flesh and reduced substance to smoke and heat. How completely it turned something into nothing.

Legolas shuddered helplessly. The apathy was beginning to wear away, and the physical pain returned to torment his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. Aragorn was speaking, filling the void with the horrific facts. They pounded in Legolas' heart like a tolling bell, like an axe splitting wood. "Ai, you have been poisoned… Long has this been in your body! I blame myself for not seeing it sooner… I failed you so completely. I am so sorry! So very sorry!" His words came quicker and quicker, laced with unspeakable hurt and quivering rage. "You must have become infected at Cair Andros. Only that could explain your wounds failing to heal, your insomnia, and your nightmare…" Could it? Legolas struggled to make sense of this all, although in the face of imminent disaster it appeared to matter little. Had all of his suffering been simply the product of an invisible toxin that had only now exerted its final and true effects? "The arrow that struck you was coated in it. It is a foul thing that works quickly to murder its victim. I have seen it destroy men in a matter of hours… But you are Elf-kind, and that has slowed its progression, and you lasted many days in its throes though – "

"How long?" Legolas heard himself ask.

Grief shone in Aragorn's dark eyes. "A day. Maybe two."

The Elf looked up and held his friend's gaze. Neither looked away, both searching the other for some small bit of comfort. "And there is no cure?"

Lifelessly Aragorn whispered, "I can only ease your pain."

_It is too late. I am sorry. They can do nothing._

_Nothing._

He closed his eyes and sank deeply into the bed, wishing idly that the soft blankets and mattress could somehow suck him down and hide him from this monstrosity. But the bed and the shadows and the lies could not shield him. There was no where he might run, no place that might conceal him. No hope. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, bathing his fevered skin, and dizziness crushed him against his bed. Everything faded in the moment, leaving only a grief stronger than any he had ever before known. Inexplicably the hazy dream of his mother's death returned to him, eager to add its own particular melancholy. His mother… How he had hated that day! The attack had come so suddenly, though all of Mirkwood had been aware of Dol Guldur's newest attempts to rid the dark forests of the wood Elves. Only later, in the wake of death and destruction, had the shame and rage over their own false sense of security came full force. How the vile monsters had infiltrated the palace deep inside the mountain the Elves had never understood. The attack had been swift and maliciously violent. His mother, alone in the royal chambers, had been one of the first to fall. And when Legolas had returned from the fight…

The Elf now weakly rolled over and sobbed. He cursed the viciousness of fate, the cruel unfairness of this all! The tears that had threatened for days and days came free in a torrent. A hand touched his shoulder and attempted to pull him from the protective, curled position his body had assumed. He tensed and refused; he had no wish to face them! Rage rushed over him, arcing through his throbbing body like lightning. How dare they presume to comfort him! How dare they think to speak their shallow promises, their empty consolation! How dare they! His voice would not come to him, though, and he was breathless in suffering the fury. Why had he been chosen? What had he done to deserve such a terrible demise? Death was a foreign thing to his race, a great unknown that not many of the Firstborn was forced to face. But when it came upon them, death was a sudden and unexpected event. Elves were made resilient against disease and injury, the power of Middle Earth endowing them with strength and endurance. They did not wither in ailment. They did not linger in twilight. This was not right! So many times had he faced death, had he willingly stood before a perilous fight and stood tall against his potential demise… Always had his belief been that, should he die, he would do so bravely in battle. He would with honor and dignity meet such a fate, alongside his comrades and friends, fighting for what he treasured, for his beliefs. This was not the way he wished to end his life! He had known much death in his long years: his grandfather, countless friends and comrades during patrols and skirmishes and the Battle of the Five Armies and the War of the Ring, his mother, Haldir of Lórien, Tathar… But they had been blessed by a short death. They had not been given time to regret, to hurt, to grieve.

_A day. Maybe two._

He did not wish to wait! _If you call for me, take me now!_ cried his hurting heart. _Do not do this to me. Please, I beseech you! If I must die, please, allow me some peace, some dignity!_

The hand upon his shoulder became strong and frantic. "Legolas! Legolas! Please!" The voice was a throaty whisper riddled with fear and sorrow. The Elf barely heard the words, curled tightly upon himself, lost to the world in his ultimate anguish. Still, his friends were too stricken with their own guilt and despair to weather the sight of his turmoil. It was Gimli whose great hands were upon him, pushing him gently back into the pillows. "Do not give up hope. I beg you! There are still things we might try…" The Dwarf shared a firm look with Aragorn, as if forcing the idea upon the forlorn king. Legolas was falling in and out of consciousness, blinking listlessly as Gimli's blurry form shifted in and out of focus. A large palm fell upon his brow. "_Please_, Legolas. You must not abandon hope! Fight!" Gimli's rough voice was choked with unshed tears. "If not for yourself, my friend, then for me. You do not know the depths of my hurt at the thought of losing you. My soul shrivels in shame, for it was I who allowed you to fight and it was my negligence that made possible your fall." The Dwarf's tone dropped to a weak whisper. "Do you remember what I told you? Many years there are before us. Many years! I cannot bear the thought of your death before mine. I cannot bear it! If you leave me, I shall crumble and fade from this world, I am sure of it."

"Gimli…" the Elf whispered hoarsely, his eyes coming open at the sight of his dear friend's tears.

The Dwarf gave a weak smile, his lips shaking with the pathetic attempt. "So you see, Elf, should you give up this fight, you will kill us both. No Dwarf has ever died from grief; such a frivolity is the weakness of Elves alone. I will not be the first. Do you understand me?" Stubby fingers wiped away embarrassing wetness from his cheeks. "I will not have it! You are stronger than this. I have seen you surmount every obstacle with only the most infuriating of elegance and poise. You can defeat this. I know you can!"

Legolas sobbed, hot tears rolling down his temples and streaking into his hair. "I cannot…" he moaned, pain striking him once more. Whatever he had before been given to ease the physical duress was now fading and doing so swiftly.

"You will. You must!" Gimli gasped, keeping his face close to Legolas', his dark eyes blazing with anger and worry. Legolas' face crumpled in ruin as the terrible agony returned. "Aragorn…" said the Dwarf, concern rising in his tone.

The ranger's dark form shifted rapidly beside the bed, but the ill Elf was hardly aware of the movement. The hurt had come back with a vengeance, searing through his hapless body with a cruel intensity that drove his heart into a thundering panic. The pain was brutal. He wished only to die, for now that alone would end this!

"Hurry with the broth!" Gimli gasped. He turned back to Legolas' weakly writhing form beside him, pulling his own stout body closer to his friend's. Legolas' face glistened with sweat and tears as he gasped and rasped, fighting against unseen demons that seemed to rip at his very flesh. "Squeeze my hand, Elf," Gimli offered, grasping the archer's shaking fingers. "You will not hurt me. Scream if you need. None shall hear it." Legolas was conscious and angry enough to shake his head against the unbecoming idea. Frustrated and furious, Gimli refused to allow decorum to restrain him. "Scream, Legolas! Do not hold this within you!"

That was incentive enough. The meager remains of his honor were shredded by the harsh talons of his suffering, and he released a keening wail of utter misery. The ear-piercing cry echoed through the room, but he had no time to think much of it before another wave of agony took him. For what seemed like forever to the Elf and his friends, the torment continued, and the room veritably shook with the strength of Legolas' pain. The prince barely drew breath enough to continue to cry his despair, the ragged screams punctuated by only short wheezing. Aragorn sat on the bed on Legolas' other side, sharing a teary, terrified glance with a mortified Gimli before gently laying his weight upon Legolas' struggling body to keep the Elf still. They could hardly afford to permit the tearing of his wounds.

Finally the attack passed. Legolas lingered in the moment, shivering, winded. The fiery agony was slow to recede, but when it did, his body throbbed dully and his head pulsed. He lay still, struggling to regain his senses. When he did, dizziness pounded into him, and nausea came unbidden. His throat clenched. "Aragorn – "

The ranger understood immediately what the Elf needed, pushing his arm beneath his friend's shaking shoulders and pulling the heaving archer into his arms. The ranger had apparently anticipated this, rapidly dragging Legolas closer to the edge of the bed and supporting him as he vomited the contents of his twisting stomach into an empty water basin. The torment continued until he had expelled all he had, and even then he shook in great, dry heaves and harsh coughs. Aragorn remained through it all, his strong hands gentle and comforting.

At last the torture ceased, and Legolas sobbed his relief. His friends laid him back into the bed, settling him into the pillows. He struggled to catch his breath, drifting on waves of exhausted relief. His vision cleared eventually. His heartbeat slowed, and fresh air came to his lungs. His head yet throbbed, but the pain was somewhat lessened. It made little sense to him, but inexplicably he felt better.

Legolas drew a deep breath. His mouth tasted terrible, coppery and bitter like blood, but he found he cared little. Aragorn appeared again, holding a cup of steaming liquid. He gave his friend a weak smile. "This will clear your head and control the pain enough so that you might sleep."

He might have thought to repel the offering, but he was simply too hurt and sorrowful to deny the solace sleep provided. Whatever he had previously feared in dream could not reach him now. In a day or so, there would be naught left to reach.

So he permitted Aragorn to help him drink, and the warm liquid slid down a slack throat. His stomach turned slightly, but he did not fight. When he could take no more, Aragorn pulled the cup from his shaking lips. Gimli returned to pull the disarrayed blankets about the shivering Elf. The king glanced at the stout companion once more before laying a warm, callused hand upon his friend's brow. "We _will_ fight this, Legolas," promised Aragorn, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The ranger was clearly forcing bravado into his voice, for its timbre trembled. "Be strong. Gimli is right: there are herbs I might yet try." Aragorn's hands folded into his own. "Perhaps… Elladan and Elrohir might know of something that can help you. I have sent word to the northern Dúnedain."

Tears flooded Legolas' eyes. Though he masked it well, Aragorn's desperation was obvious. After Rivendell had emptied, Elrond's twin sons had decided to travel Middle Earth. Once or twice had they visited Gondor and Ithilien, calling upon old friends and wishing their sister well. When they had frequented Ithilien, old camaraderie had quickly resurfaced. Many times in the past had the sons of Elrond borne the unfortunate brunt of the mischievous antics of Legolas and Aragorn. Great bonds had been formed in youth and simpler times that had persisted through war and despair. As Elrond's heirs, they had learned much from their father in the ways of the healing arts. Now, in the wake of the departure of Elrond and Gandalf, they were the most knowledgeable throughout the world of the ancient magics and medicines.

However, nobody had heard from them in months. They were last reported among the northern Dúnedain, with whom their father had held great amiable relations. It was a dark prospect indeed, and both Aragorn and Legolas knew it. Even if the twin Elves were with the rangers of the north, a message would never reach them in time. There was only a day. Two at most. Still, empty hope was better than none. His pride would not allow him to hurt his friend further with his doubt and despair. Perhaps some part of his heart wanted a tiny shred of faith to which he might still cling. Perhaps it was better to die holding to a bit of optimism than to pass without any comfort at all and completely defeated.

Thus he only nodded, offering Aragorn a weak smile. It was all he could manage, but it was enough to placate their rampant fear and sorrow even if they both saw through it. Gimli was heartened by the small exchange, grinning in reassurance. He proudly declared, "Together we can overcome this. I _know_ we can."

Legolas did not know. But at that moment he did not concern himself with truth or falsehood. For the first time in days he permitted the rush of his friends' love and care to penetrate his defenses and reach his hurting heart. He was not alone. He did not need to suffer in silence any longer. His friends loved him. They would help him and take care of him no matter the revulsion, the grief, or the pain. They would stay with him, warming his darkest hours with the strength of their love, until the very end.

After days of uncertainty and suffering, finally accepting the depths of their affection was simply too much for the stricken Elf. He wept but not in pain or despair. A strange numbness came over his weak body that hid the hurt and disease enough so that his mind might experience a bit of happiness. Perhaps it was borne from Aragorn's medicine. Perhaps it was simply the product of at long last letting go. He was glad then for their tender touches and reassuring words and kind eyes. It did not matter if those touches were only meant to assuage their own guilt, or if those words were empty and full of lies, or if those eyes were filled with tears. There was not the time for such things to burden him. He would need all his strength. It was a futile venture, perhaps, to fight for a body that was inevitably dying, but he would do so for as long as he could. For Éowyn and Arwen. For Fethra and Faramir. For Gimli's sake. For Aragorn's.

"Your friends are with you, Legolas," Aragorn whispered as the Elf's eyes closed. "And we always will be."

A sincere smile crept to the pale, drawn face. As his mind sank into oblivion, he knew this night would hold no serenity for him. The pain lurked constantly, and the fever made wild simple thoughts. He could feel another attack constantly itching at him. This medicine's analgesic effects would dissipate as surely as before, and the torment would return many times during the long, dark hours. Vaguely he realized that relief would never again come to him. The only peace now was that of death.

Still, he did not yearn for such a thing as he had before. At least, not at this moment. He owed his family and friends too much to simply wink out like a flickering candle blown in a bit of breeze. The benefit of the doubt was his only strength, and he held to it with all his might. The love around him was good and powerful, white against the pressing shadows, pure against the foul poison destroying his once ageless and beautiful body. But even the most formidable of actions and feelings at times could not change the course of fate. He fell asleep, knowing that that love would not be enough, but praying that it might be, all the same.

Hope enough to ward away death's shadow. Hope enough to fight the pain.

Hope enough to face a future that was sadly and undeniably absolute.


	17. The Undiscovered Country

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY**

The night proved long and hard, torturous and terrible. Many times did the agonizing attacks come, ripping from the delirious and ailing Elf whatever rest he could manage. His body had shaken in chills, burned and ripped with a spiking fever, heaved and coughed in gagging and vomiting. None of Aragorn's medicine stayed down long enough to exert the desired effect, and Legolas was easily taken by the pain. He remained its helpless prisoner through the lengthy hours, chained to its will, beaten by its intensity without repose. Hands had held his quaking body still, warm arms tightening about his form as he had struggled blindly against faceless, voiceless foes. When sleep had come to him, it had been fitful and restless, riddled with grotesque dreams and hazy memories that bled too easily into waking reality. Never did anything last long enough to allow him to make sense of the distorted images. His mind was choked by the poison, his senses lost in a sea of misery and hallucination. Delirium was a cunning monster, and he was defenseless against its sadistic and cruel whims. There were sad dreams and terrible perversions of truth. The death of loved ones. The loss of the Fellowship. Aragorn and Gimli falling at Helm's Deep, crushed in the explosion that he had failed to prevent. Destruction like wildfire claiming Gondor during the horrific siege at the end of the war. The Greenwood burning and his father's manor filled with the dead. That wicked barbed arrow stuck in Faramir's chest, his own hands stained in his dear friend's blood as he ripped and pulled. Memory became dream, dream twisted into nightmare, nightmare stretched into reality, and all was lost to him. He was lost.

Morning came, but its light did not lift the gloom. Dawn thankfully ended the long stretch of darkness, and even the sick Elf emerged from the depths of fever to greet the sun with a weary smile. It was a false hope, a horrid lie. Dawn only meant the passing of hours, the loss of time that would never again be recovered. Dawn only signified chances withering and hopes fading. It was clear to any who had the strength to see that Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood and Lord of Ithilien, hero of the War of the Ring, would not survive to witness this rising sun again set.

Legolas tiredly cracked open one eye. His blurry vision refocused to settle Aragorn's ragged face into one position. He could hardly keep his dry eyes open, the lids heavy and terribly itchy with lack of sleep. The ranger was leaning at the desk, his normally proud shoulders slumping with fatigue and worry. A quill scraped loudly over parchment. The Elf managed a sloppy grin, the muscles of his face lethargic and too strained from twisting in hurt. "Do… do you not have a war to run?" he jested softly.

Aragorn tuned a surprised gaze upon his ailing friend. Though only in the last few minutes had Legolas become lucid enough to take stock of his state and his surroundings, he knew Aragorn had spent the entirety of the night with him, holding him during the worst throes of the fever, wetting his face and chest when the heat had nearly suffocated him, helping him to drink to avoid dehydration. He hated to have put his dearest friend through such torture.

The king just smiled, however, and went back to his writing. "Faramir is tending to it at the moment," he responded. "King's prerogative."

The bright light streaming through the open balcony doors hurt his head, so Legolas closed his eyes as he grinned. "Lazy," he murmured. Warmly Aragorn laughed, glancing up from his work. Legolas breathed easier now. A bit of good fortune had come to them an hour or so ago when finally the archer had managed to keep down a bit of broth and medicine. The pain had diminished to a tolerable level, and his body relished the bit of liquid in his hurting stomach. Lucidity was a wonderful balm to his bleeding spirit, and these moments now were precious indeed. Legolas had never imagined that so simple a thing as seeing and thinking clearly would feel so marvelous.

Of course, here as well was the subtle darkness. Though Aragorn had not said as much, it was obvious that the healer-king was rapidly exhausting his options. Stronger and stronger herbs did he administer to his wilting friend, and with each dose the effect became less and less. The poison was gaining control of Legolas' body, eating alive its natural defenses and forcing away the relief and benefit of the medicines. In a matter of hours, nothing Aragorn could do would influence the progression of the toxin coursing through Legolas' veins. In a matter of hours, he would not even be able to control the pain.

The two friends were silent a moment, the void filled with only the gentle brush of the breeze against the curtains, the scratch of the quill against paper, and the soft wheezing of the Elf. Legolas moistened his mouth enough to speak again. "What is it that… that you so diligently compose?"

Aragorn stopped again, the pen still in his hand. His eyes grew distant, frightened perhaps, and he paused. His breath left him slowly as he looked to the Elf lying in the bed. "It is nothing. Think not of it." He turned back to the parchment, but it was clear his will to complete whatever he scrawled was wavering.

Dry lips pulled into another feeble grin. "You have always been… a truly pathetic liar, Aragorn." The king stiffened at his transparency. He swallowed uncomfortably before gazing upon Legolas once more. The Elf's half-lidded eyes shined ethereally from the fever and drugs. "Tell me what it is."

Another sigh, this one wrought with tension and a tad of hope, fled Aragorn's lips. "It is a peace treaty."

The man's guarded response piqued Legolas' interest despite his fatigue. The Elf forced his eyes open wider, confusion creasing his brow. "A treaty?" he repeated incredulously. He did not like the implication of the idea, and beneath the haze of pain and weariness his heart filled with apprehension.

Aragorn detected his friend's puzzled misgivings. "Emperor Holis believes a formal agreement between Gondor and Harad will intimidate the Easterlings. An allegiance in name perhaps will do more to frighten them than one in theory alone. He proposes a public signing of the contract."

The words were muddled inside Legolas' head, and it took his indolent mind a moment to make sense of them. His eyes closed again; straining to think was only amplifying the splitting head plaguing him. "And… you agree?"

He felt Aragorn shrug. "I see the merit of his argument," answered the king quietly. "The Haradrim suffered great losses at Emyn Nimsîr. If there was any doubt as to their loyalties, I believe that was enough to eradicate it. Such a forfeit is too great for any deceit." Legolas did not answer, swallowing uncomfortably in an attempt to rid his dry mouth of its foul taste. "The Easterlings have not acted since the battle. I believe they wait for us to make a move. Like snakes they slither about, poising to strike a foolish creature. Hopefully if Gondor and Harad unite, we will prove a meal too large for small jaws." Aragorn's voice trailed off, his eyes misted in thought. Silence took them, leaving the soft words to imprint the moment with uncertainty and faith straining to assert itself. Legolas tried to concentrate on the matter, but his mind refused. Soft and vague now was the once pressing suspicion, the screaming agony over a seemingly ancient dream. He would have thought to question this action, perhaps. He might have wished to warn his friend, to bring to light old unresolved tensions, to again force an issue of trust and fear, and to once more speak of his private trauma that had come to him in the night. But the details of it were somehow distant now, even though they had brutalized and tormented him endlessly before. The past was fuzzy and indistinct, as though a wall of frosty ice stood between him and any clear understanding. Everything was distorted and detached.

Then Aragorn's quill began to press ink into the paper again. "But do not think of it, Legolas. It is not important."

The warning he had thought to speak died in his throat, and everything slipped quietly back into the swirl of disconnected consciousness. They did not speak further for a long time, the king darkly writing the future of his country upon a thin sheet of parchment, the prince slipping in and out of awareness. Sickness was a strange thing, truly, and Legolas barely understood the changes occurring to him. His body felt _dead_ to him, though he could not explain exactly what that meant, and were he not so pained and delirious, he would have been terrified by the foreign and dreadful sensation. He had never thought his own flesh and blood, the very essence of his physical existence with which he had for centuries peacefully harmonized, could so utterly betray him. The fact of it was disgusting, and undeniably the separation of his weary spirit from his dying body grew closer with each moment. Mortality was an alien cruelty to a body once so well endowed with the vibrant glow of nature, of boundless health. Tiredly his eyes observed his own quaking form at times, wondering if truly those were his legs beneath the sheets, if his arms were in reality the heavy weights across his chest, if his hands could possibly be so weak and lifeless. In this, at least, he was grateful for the pain and fever that easily stole from him his means of thought and logic. He did not have the ability to do more than wonder idly at this horrific transformation from immortal, beautiful Elf to mortal, ugly victim. It was as if he was floating outside himself, watching the degradation of his own body with little more than lazy, noncommittal interest. He was glad for that detachment.

Sight and sound. Reality and nightmare. Life and death.

Body and soul. Were such things so discernable? He had once been taught as such. The body was made of the earth, formed of the power of life and the substance of all things real and tangible. The spirit was made of less certain forces, one simple note in an endless song of creation. In worldly existence the two thrived, and without one, the other's time upon this plane was over. Mandos' Halls was the resting place of Elven souls torn from Elven bodies. Very few returned from there, and those that did were given a greater understanding of all things that most never came to realize. Would this higher existence welcome him? Legolas breathed quietly, sinking deeper into the comforting fantasy. Would his soul, once freed from the dying prison of his failing flesh, find peace there? Would he again see those he had lost? His grandfather, Tathar… his mother? Was such a thing possible?

Did eternal tranquility await him?

_Legolas,_ came the whisper of the wind, of the trees, of the earth. _Rest awaits you, my child. Do not be afraid._

"Legolas?"

Slowly his eyelids parted. Aragorn's face appeared above him. A weak smile claimed the man's lips. His eyes betrayed the mirth as false, as they were troubled and torn. "The child has come."

Legolas struggled to liberate himself from the void of sleepy contemplation. Had that voice been real? His mind was so groggy that he could find meaning in neither the words of moments ago nor what now Aragorn was trying to tell him. He grew frustrated with his slothful senses. Finally, after what seemed a terribly long, disoriented period, he found both the will and the means to speak. "The child?"

The man's face was forlorn and tight. "Your daughter."

_My… daughter?_ Had Aragorn just said that? It was not possible! With his death, the pride and strength of the blood of the House of Oropher would completely fade from Middle Earth. When he passed from this place, the last of an ancient and powerful family would disappear. And yet, although he certainly knew these facts beyond any doubt, the thought of otherwise was incredibly pleasing. He sank into it, embracing it despite its fallacy, warmed by its promises. Love. Purpose. A future beyond this terrible fall. For a moment, at least, fantasy became reality.

"Legolas?"

Aragorn's concerned voice and prodding at his shoulder pulled him rather forcefully from the happy moment, leaving only the cruelty of reality. The man's face was broken in concern. "Did you hear me? You were distracted a moment. Fethra is here."

_Fethra…_ Nay, Aragorn had not spoken those words. The want of his heart could not make it so, and the silly, groundless dream fell away. As quickly as it came the strange thought departed him. Instead there was a quiet whisper of concern that gradually became a shout. In his delirious haze he had nearly forgotten the girl. Sick or no, dying or no, he was still the child's protector, and he had a responsibility to her. Even more than this, though, was a sudden wish. He remembered the warmth of her aura, of her love for him, and abruptly his soul shook in an intense craving for those comforts.

The Elf broke from his momentary stupor. Excitement charged through his body, giving his limbs energy where they had before had none. A sudden recollection came to him and his quivering hand came to grasp at the loose folds of his tunic. Over his chest he felt nothing. Fethra's pendant was gone. Had it fallen from him during the battle? His stomach churned in horror and grief. He could not have lost it! "Where is it, Aragorn?" he asked desperately, his eyes wide in terror.

Aragorn shook his head slightly in exasperation. "Where is what?"

Legolas forced himself to calm enough to explain. Only panic was driving him, and he felt dizzy and sick for it. Swallowing his nausea, he stammered, "A necklace bearing a red jewel. I wore it into battle." His voice was pinched in frantic imploration that Aragorn aid him where his faulty memory and weak body could not.

Confusion held Aragorn's expression a bit longer but then realization passed over his face. The taut expression loosened as he turned and headed towards the desk. Legolas struggled to sit up, bearing his teeth in the strain, for his body was terribly heavy and utterly unresponsive. The king returned a moment later, the silver chain looping from closed fingers. "Legolas, lie still!" exclaimed Aragorn in dismay at seeing his stubborn friend's movements.

"I will not… I will not have her see me like this!" gasped the Elf prince. He had finally succeeded in propping himself up upon his elbows, but the simple act had drained him considerably. He struggled to catch his breath as his body began to ache mercilessly and the room began to spin.

Aragorn was quick to help him. Legolas was far too tired and in too much pain for his bruised ego to care about his dependence upon his friend, succumbing to Aragorn's guiding hands. After a few moments of moaning and fighting, the Elf was as upright as his cramped muscles and serious wounds would permit him to be. Aragorn's firm fingers remained clasped upon Legolas' shoulder for a minute longer. "Are you sure you wish to do this?" questioned the king. There was no insult or pity in his tone.

Finally breath enough found its way to Legolas' straining lungs for him to speak. "Yes," he whispered. His eyes were glazed and his mind numb. There was no doubt. Though it was not said, the terrible truth of it was clear to them both. A paradise of lucidity had been granted to the Elf. If he waited, the poison would take him again as it had the night before. If he delayed, he would be gone to the agony and fever again. It was not a chance he was willing to take.

Aragorn nodded then, submitting to his friend's wishes though it was obvious he was not pleased with them. He took Legolas' slender hand and dropped the pendant into his palm. Then his rough fingers closed over the Elf's own. He said nothing, only offering a weary smile. Then he turned and walked to the chamber's doors. He slipped outside on light footfalls.

Legolas sat in silence for what appeared to him to be forever. It was a moment only, but time had adopted a strange new meaning to him in the face of a death sentence. Times of peace had become short and fleeting. Times of hurt were long, dreary, and vicious. The passage of hours, the ally of Elven kind, had now become his worst enemy.

The Elf sagged wearily against the headboard of the bed. He brought the hand holding the pendant before his eyes, struggling to find peace enough so as not to frighten Fethra. He opened his fingers. The small gem glowed upon his palm, spreading its warm light over his pale skin. After all that happened, given the disasters it had seen, this special jewel sparkled as brightly as it ever had. Never did its glow dim. Immortal.

The door creaked open slowly. His fingers covered the necklace once more, and quickly he looked up.

Éowyn offered him a weak smile as she stepped inside. Aragorn and Arwen followed, though their steps were tentative as though they feared what was about to transpire. In Éowyn's arms Fethra squirmed, the child's eyes growing wide and brightly green at seeing Legolas. The woman came closer, calm and composed. Then she looked away, perhaps in shame, and whispered something soft to the wriggling girl in her embrace. Fethra stopped in her struggles a moment, her eyes never leaving Legolas' despite the soft brush of Éowyn's voice in her ear. The child was set to the bed tenderly. The others stepped back outside, leaving the door ajar. They knew how important this moment was, and it was not their place to participate.

Fethra was terrified. The initial joy of her reunion with him had obviously faded, and she was frightened of the Elf's strange appearance. Legolas' heart throbbed at seeing the doubt and confusion dance brightly in the girl's eyes. She was hesitant to come closer at first, eyeing him as though she was questioning if he was the same person that had days before left her. Though the thought brought tears to his eyes, Legolas found he could not blame her. He was hardly recognizable as an Elf prince, as the strong protector she had once loved.

"Leglass, you're sad again," the child finally said. She watched him with imploring eyes as she scrambled up onto the bed. The others outside shifted, watching in fear that she might inadvertently hurt him. But she stopped beside his legs, afraid to touch him. No longer did she climb joyously into his embrace. No more did her laughter spill from smiling lips. She had seen far too much in her young life, and she was about to again be subjected to forces and fates she could not understand. The innocence of youth was too precious a thing to so harshly and quickly rip away.

It took all of his energy, but Legolas reached out his hand to the girl. She seemed doubtful, eyeing his offered embrace as though he might suddenly radically change into a monster or ghost. Then she succumbed, her chin quivering slightly, and with a weak whimper scrambled to snuggle against his chest.

They said nothing a moment. A terrible lump had come to Legolas' throat, and he could manage no sound. His shaking hand stroked Fethra's mussed hair as she nuzzled her small form to him. Why had it come to this? Desperate were his thoughts, but no matter the straining of his furious, grieving spirit, he could find no answer. Such a terrible injustice! Had fate no love for life, for family, for constancy? The Elf quaked with rage. If a future for them together had been possible at all, now it would never be, and a thousand potential memories from a life denied raced through his head. The weight of his despair pushed tears from his closed eyes. How he despised the wretched working of things… How he hated himself for leaving her!

"How come you're crying, Leglass?"

He opened his eyes and looked down. Fethra watched him with a frightened, wistful gaze. Despite the child's age, she knew something was dreadfully wrong. How could he expect her inexperienced mind to comprehend this? His heart thundered madly with the strength of his emotions, and his blood ran hot and violent with him. "Ehwyn says you're sick, Leglass. Is that why you're crying?" He could not answer her. His rage afforded him no words, no thoughts, no choices. Fethra watched him a moment more before laying her head against his chest once more. "I want you to get better."

Her soft words smashed through the defenses his wrath had erected about his heart, and a flood of despair pushed through to pummel what remained of his composure. The Elf released a shaking breath. Somehow he found the mind and bravery to speak. "I will not get better, Fethra."

The child did not move for what seemed to be the longest time, and her utter stillness made Legolas wonder if he had spoken the words at all. His mind was beginning to drift, and the pain was gnawing at his control. The strength of the medicine was waning. There was little time left. The prince closed his hand tighter about the pendant. "I still have your necklace," he whispered into her hair. "Would you like it back?"

She did not speak her answer, shaking her head vehemently against his chest. Legolas grimaced, his fingers absently squeezing the pendant into his palm until it hurt. _Why have you done this to me?_ his hurting mind demanded of the forces that were, of the song that wove the thread of his life into the fabric of all things. It seemed that power was intent on ripping him out. _Why have you given so easily only to take away? Why must you destroy her? What has she done to deserve such cruelty?_

Fethra's small hands balled tightly in the fabric of his shirt. "Your heart's beating, Leglass."

He could bear this no longer. Tightly did his arms come to wrap around the tiny form, this precious gift he had inexplicably found. Tears fell from his eyes, and he sobbed softly as he laid his cheek atop the child's head. Wetness soaked through the breast of his tunic. "You promised me you wouldn't leave me," Fethra whimpered fearfully. Her voice shook with sobs. "You told me Elves can't die! That's what you said, Leglass! You promised!"

"I know I did," the Elf gasped weakly. "I am so sorry."

She pulled away from him, her face torn in fury, in grief. Her big eyes glistened wetly, her flushed cheeks damp. "You promised," she whined. "You promised! You promised!" Her words were slurred with sobs.

He was not strong enough to fight her, though he tightened his grip to keep her struggling form against him. "Please, Fethra," he pleaded, completely unable to stand her upset. "There is nothing for which I wish more than to keep that promise. But I cannot. I cannot!" Statements rushed by his dazed mind, each pushing to make itself heard. Words of sadness, of excuse, of explanation. Words of anger and guilt. Even words of comfort, as palty as they were. But he spoke none of them, the moment fleeting and his resolve wavering. What good would they do now? She could not understand such silly, trite things. She could hardly comprehend that her guardian, the one she had chosen to replace her father, was parting with her forever. She could not know the swell of grief within, the vise of pain and anguish squeezing at his throat…

It was her arms. She had flung herself about him, wrapping her small limbs tightly around his neck. Legolas embraced her dazedly as she screamed and cried her despair. The Elf wished he could be so candid with his own grief, but he had not the strength or will to vent his misery. He loved her, and he would be her comfort even in his own death. "Shh," Legolas whispered softly into her hair. "All _I_ will know now is happiness, and that should make _you_ happy. I do not want you to be so sad. Stop, please."

"I'm scared," Fethra whimpered, burying her face into the nape of his neck. "I don't want to be alone, Leglass."

Somehow the calm to speak came to him. His voice was steady and strong. "You are not alone." His hand cupped the back of her head as he pressed his lips to her brow. His love for her was great and pure, and it fought the despair and disease. For this moment, there was peace. "You will never be alone. I will always be with you."

Fethra's gaze held his own, and in the quiet there was a gentle breath of hope as cool and sweet as a summer breeze. It was acceptance, a serene measure of tranquility amidst a raging storm. They would not be parted, not truly. She would remember him. The strange quirk of fate that had brought together the most unlikely of creatures would ensure the union of their spirits far beyond this upsetting moment. That was consoling, somehow. That was enough.

For then the pain came back, and it did so with a fiery passion. The world slammed heavily upon the Elf, viciously ripping from him the moment of peace, yanking from his lungs air to breathe and from his limbs energy to move. Legolas swallowed his scream as best he could, weakly falling back into the bed. Again the frightening nothingness swallowed him, and everything became so distant and dark. He heard shrieking and weeping, pounding footsteps, the door banging open. The agony consumed him, leaving him breathless and helpless to its sadistic, malicious whims.

Grasping fingers released his hair and clothes only after much yanking and cajoling. A small voice cried and cried. "Leglass! Leglass! I want Leglass!" No longer could he place the voice, so complete was the oblivion of the torture put upon him. More footsteps resounded, and the blurry world shifted as he watched a mess of blond and red hair run from him. There was a part of him that yearned to follow, to ease the suffering of the desperate and miserable soul. But the poison afforded him nothing. New hands restrained him; new voices bade him rest and peace. No! He would not have it end like this! He would not! He could not…

She was gone.

The pendant fell from limp fingers, crashing to the floor and soundlessly shattering.

* * *

And in the end, there would be nothing. Nothing but a memory, a hopeless cause, an angry soul forever searching for absolution and understanding that were maybe not its to have. A body, once ageless, beautiful, and strong, made of soft, smooth skin, of powerful muscle, of glowing, blue eyes and of pale, bright hair… a perfect creation laid to waste by a malicious turn of events. It was truly terrible that such degradation had come to pass. This was a body that had loved and been loved, that had fought valiantly alongside friends and family, that had aided in the salvation of its world, that had housed a noble and brilliant soul. In a matter of hours, it would be dead. Once so vibrant and splendorous, once glowing with all the vitality of life… it would all be gone.

The last attacks had weakened Legolas. He had no strength to move now, and he constantly drifted listlessly to and from awareness. The pain had been stubborn in relenting, and he lingered in the grips of agony. In the strength of the hurt, all emotion and sensation fled. There was nothing but a dark, deep abyss, and the descent was truly terrible. The disease stole from his body and his mind, and now his spirit was cracking under its constant press. If he had possessed vigor at all before, it had abandoned him when the battle for his life became a slow defeat. He had submitted himself to his inevitable downfall.

Mere hours had passed, but to the Elf it had been an eternity of infernal destruction as his body was laid to waste. He knew he had dreamt and thought much, but nothing now would come to him. He wondered where he was. He wondered who he was. He wondered at such a death, without honor or pride. Without identity.

Arwen stroked his face compassionately as the fever ravaged him. He lie admist the rumpled sheets of his bed, shivering in chills. None of the medicine did anything to lower his temperature, and cool baths provided little comfort and caused too much strain. Though his senses were extremely dull, Legolas knew his dear friend was losing faith. He observed the dolor in her eyes, the tears that she bravely held from falling. He hated seeing her so lost and hurt. "You need not… do that now," he whispered, his cracked, bloodied lips hardly moving with the motion.

Éowyn stopped cooling his chest with a wet rag and looked up. Briefly the woman's eyes met the gaze of her queen, her exhausted face broken in the last of her hopes. Arwen held tighter to Legolas' hand. "Do not speak. You must save your strength," Arwen admonished gently.

Blue eyes soullessly searched the face over him. Their light had been cruelly stolen. Still, a tiny smile perked Legolas' mouth. A fleeting memory came to him. "Undómiel," he whispered. A flicker of joy passed in the depthless gaze. "Long have I… I looked upon your face. Like a pale star glowing… in a sea of black." Arwen raised his limp hand and pressed its flaccid length to her cheek. "Do… do you remember the times… back in Imladris? Under the night sky… a million shining specks…"

"Legolas," she whispered.

The faint recollection came to him, warm and tender, and he embraced it. In Sindarin he whispered, "You shone brighter than… than them all. And I was entranced by your beauty. Undómiel." Her grasp on his hand become tighter. "Even now you… you are an evening star to me. I am not afraid."

Arwen smiled. "You were never afraid."

There was much more he wished to say, but he could find no words. Perhaps if things had been different… So long ago had he wished for her. She was dear to him when he had fled the cold silence of his own home. She was serene and sweet, never asking for anything other than his affection. But time and his friendship with Aragorn had tempered dreams never meant to be. Perhaps if he had said the words… His mind escaped him. "Long did I wish for naught but your love," he whispered. "But I am happy… happy that you have found your place with Estel."

She understood everything he could not say. And with that, she nodded, the tears finally breaking free from her eyes to roll unbidden down pale cheeks. She pressed her lips to his palm. "You always had my love, my prince, and you always will."

Éowyn watched the exchange silently, her face forlorn. She could not understand their words, but she surely felt the implication of the quiet moment. "My Lord, do not despair," she pleaded. Her blue eyes flashed in desperation, clinging to hope when there was none to be had. "All is not lost."

He turned his empty gaze to Éowyn, watching the emotions play across her face. She could not force her faith upon him any more than she could cure his ailment. "Perhaps Lord Aragorn could bleed the poison from you. Perhaps we could – "

The Elf prince winced weakly at the throbbing in his head. The pain was returning. This would be the last time. He would not fight it. As he gazed at Éowyn's pretty face, he was reminded of the sun striking spring flowers. Her hair glowed golden in the daylight, and the sky shone in her eyes. She belonged among beautiful things, for she was ethereal yet worldly, and in the play of the wind upon her flaxen tresses he saw swaying reeds of yellow grasses. _I will help her make her garden bloom._ "Tell Faramir… that I am sorry… I will break my promise to him."

Éowyn choked on a sob, dropping her gaze to hide her tears. She was too proud, too stoic to weep openly. Still, the tiny droplets struck his skin as she leaned over him. The softness of her lips as she kissed his brow felt wondrous and pure, too pure for his burning face. Then she leaned back, her slight frame shaking.

Time passed. Inevitably the pain grew, coming stronger and stronger. Lost in the throes of agony once more, he hardly noticed when the two left him. Lips had pressed against his in a chaste kiss. That was his only perception for what felt to him to be a long while. The haze lifted slowly. He was too beaten to cry or to struggle against the crushing grip of the toxin. He merely rode the waves of his anguish as though he floated upon the ocean. The sea. _I will never know it now._

Later, when a brief instance of lucidity pulled him from his tormented catatonia, he heard soft humming. Weakly he opened his eyes. Now it was Aragorn who was perched beside his bed. The king's face was lax with the burden of too much worry and not enough sleep. His body was bent and his eyes were dead. His hands were clasped about the Elf's. Despite his hurt, seeing Aragorn there offered Legolas a tiny bit of peace. He was ready. It was time.

"Aragorn?"

The man turned slowly, focusing empty eyes upon his ill friend. He ceased his low humming. Ragged and dark was his face with absolute grief and festering anger. "I am here, Legolas," Aragorn said softly. The grip upon the prince's hand grew tighter. "I will not leave you."

Legolas fought to moisten his mouth enough to speak. At first the words would not come, as they had grown lost in the convoluted tangle of his thoughts. Then, when he had managed to parse what he wished to say from the mess, he could not find the courage to say it. Only the desperation of a soul bearing too much pain gave him the strength he needed. "Kill me."

Silence. The words hung in the moment, viciously taunting with their horrid implications. Then Aragorn's eyes widened and he shook his head. The man's form began to quiver. "No, do not ask that of me." His tone was panicked and frightened.

"It hurts…" the Elf whimpered, his voice beginning to fail him. The fear of the pain was becoming stronger than the fear of death. Aragorn watched his friend suffer, his face bitterly creased in worry. "I cannot bear more of it."

"Be strong, Legolas. Fight!"

"It is hopeless."

"No!" Aragorn's eyes filled with furious tears. His words were obstinate, but his normally firm jaw quivered as he spoke them. "These are the hands of a healer, not the hands of a murderer! These hands…" The king looked to his hands, staring at them as if wondering at how they had betrayed him. They had done nothing to save his dearest friend, his brother, a companion to his very soul. Nothing. "Ai, Legolas…" He sobbed. "Please do not force this upon me!"

But Legolas would not be deterred. He forced some measure of confidence to his halting words. "If I am to die, I would – I would rather die by your hand than by this cruel fate! This is an end without dignity, without peace…" The Elf moaned as the pangs of hurt knifed through him again. "Please, Aragorn," he pleaded. "I beg you. You can release me from this. Would you deny me that?" The king looked away, averting eyes that betrayed how very much he did indeed wish for his friend's suffering to simply cease. "In all our long years together… I have never asked much of you. Do me this honor. _Please._" The last word was only a raspy whisper. It was all the strength he had left.

Aragorn's shoulders shook. Then he turned suddenly and leaned over Legolas. Their foreheads touched. He said nothing but remained still for the moment as they both drew comfort from each other. So much was left unspoken and undone. So much that now they would never share.

Then the king stood and stepped quickly from the room. Legolas was left alone, and he sagged in his relief. Only a bit longer would this torment last. Only a little while yet would the pain be able to reach him. As if knowing this, the toxin's weapons forced him down again, and nightmare and agony stampeded over his helpless form. He had nothing left with which to fight. Ghoulish apparitions from memory chased him. His brothers. His father. Would they never know what became of him?

Long did he fall. Long were the moments spent in terror and affliction. Then he was released. He gasped, his heart hammering wildly and his breath charging. Eyes snapped open and scanned fruitlessly. There was somebody there. "Gimli?"

A shuffling form approached the bed. "Rest," responded the Dwarf as he laid a palm over Legolas' brow. "Aragorn has gone to fetch stronger medicine. Hold on."

The pain kept him silent. Gimli held tight to his straining hand, whispering gentle assurances as they waited. Through the murk taking his mind, Legolas was warm with gratitude. "Elf-friend," he wheezed. "Now is the time I call you this. I will not have another chance…"

"Do not speak that way!" Gimli chided. "Stay with me. It is not your time. Do you hear me? It is not your time!" The Dwarf nearly collapsed in his grief, whatever hope that had been driving him suddenly depriving him of courage enough to even stand. "You must fight. I cannot live with this grief, Legolas. We cannot part like this!"

The door cracked open, and Gimli's rough voice faded in a barely restrained sob. Aragorn stepped inside on heavy feet. In his hands he carried a bowl, holding it so carefully as though reverent of what its contents would do. Silently he came closer, and, together with the Dwarf, Legolas was lifted slightly from the bed. The Elf moaned his agony, dizziness pounding his head. The cool bowl was tipped to his lips, and he drank slowly the liquid within. It tasted sweet, warming his throat as he swallowed.

When the bowl was empty, Aragorn set it aside. "It is done," he whispered in Elvish.

Legolas' eyes were half-lidded. A relieved sob escaped his lips. He could not help but smile. "Thank you."

Now he need only wait. At first the pain was as sharp as ever, the nightmares prodding at his consciousness as angry and vehement as they had been before. But gradually the draught began to do its work. It was a strange thing to feel it kill his body. A distinct numbness began in his toes and the tips of his fingers. The ache from his wounds lost its sharpness. Indifference took him, and he was glad to release himself to it.

When the agony relinquished its grip upon him, he could think clearly. He could see and make sense of things. He was lying in a bed. His body was strange, different, not his. Aragorn and Gimli watched him, the former sadly and the latter intently. The medicine would work this time. It would.

A cool breeze brushed by them, punctuating the long, arduous silence. Legolas smiled weakly. "Please," he began, "I… I must be outside." There was too much rock everywhere: the ceiling overhead, the floor, the walls. They were gray and forbidding. How they blocked the songs he so loved!

Aragorn seemed hesitant, but then he nodded after a moment's contemplation. There was no point in denying the request. No amount of cold or exposure could harm Legolas now. If he wished to be beneath the blue sky and among the gentle breezes, Aragorn would not deny him this. An Elf should not die in a house of stone.

So the ranger stood and slid his arm under Legolas' knees. The other his wrapped around the Elf's shoulders. He lifted his burden but looked away, as though disgusted by the ruin the disease had done to his friend's once powerful form. Gimli grabbed a fallen blanket, his eyes hard with grief, as the king stepped around the bed and walked outside to the balcony.

Cool air caressed the Elf's numb body. Sunlight streamed over him, warming his heart. The golden rays spread down over the terrace, illustrious and majestic. Aragorn set his legs carefully to the floor, the stone cold to his bare feet. Then the king wrapped his arm around the Elf's waist and supported him as together they looked out over the balcony.

It was beautiful. The sun caught the mountains just so, sending them ablaze in gold and blue. The sky was bright and lovely. Winds that smelled of the ocean wafted up to the balcony, teasing him with tickling fingers, pulling at the Elf's limp, flaxen tresses. It brought to life the sounds of the trees below, of the loose autumn leaves that rustled in the corners of the terrace. The song of the trees burst within him, loud and pure, and he allowed it to wash him away. Everything he loved was before him, around him, inside him. He was alive. _He was alive._

Legolas released a choked sob and closed his eyes. He could not bear to look anymore. These simple beauties he would never again see or hear or taste or smell or feel. Sorrow welled up within him, sorrow soft and soothing. The violence was gone. The hurt was gone, the despair, the fear. He could feel life ebb and flow within him. So beautiful.

His legs failed him, and he stumbled into Aragorn's arms. The king's embrace was warm and the man smelled of athelas and pipe smoke. Legolas grinned weakly as the man helped him settle down against the outside wall. The prince came to rest with his back pressed to Aragorn's chest. Gimli tentatively sat beside them, the breeze ruffling the mass of his red hair. His cheeks glistened wetly in the sun, like trails of glinting silver, as he sought Legolas' hand. Aragorn drew the blanket over them as they waited for the future to meet them.

Aragorn's hand came to rest over Legolas' heart. The Elf shivered slightly. Everything was growing so cold, so far away. The quiet was serene and unrushed. There was nothing to fear now. Everything came as it did, and there was comfort in that security. The past was done and it could not be changed. Souls sang in unison, enjoying a last moment together. The culmination of many years of loyalty and friendship and love.

Legolas raised his hand to lay it over his friend's. He could almost feel his heartbeat beneath the flesh of Aragorn's fingers. The song had slowed. His body became heavy, his eyes slipping shut. He was not frightened. Suddenly there was no air, but there was no need to breathe. Tears came, but there was no need to cry. Sleep finally embraced him. The pain faded away, parting from his body, and he was free.

_Come now, my son._ Again the voice resounded as the wind soothed his tired soul. He smiled; so much did its soft, melodic tone sound like his mother. _Rest. You need suffer no longer. Come and find peace._

His spirit suddenly felt and knew all. Color like nothing he had ever before experienced filled him, and he was away, flying, soaring, escaping. His chest rose. His heart beat. He released a breath, whispering his last song to the trees, to the stars, to the earth. Then he was still. Nothing now would his heart feel. No more would his eyes see. No longer would his voice speak.

A single leaf rustled.

The rest was silence.

* * *

Please don't kill me… :-)


	18. In the Wake

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hi, everyone! Thanks for all of the reviews! I know the last chapter was probably a bit alarming, but believe it or not, you have only read about a third of this story. So that happy ending is still out there, if you can stick with me. I hope you do :-). Thanks for reading!

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART TWO**

_What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,  
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff  
That beetles o'er his base into the sea,  
And there assume some other horrible form,  
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason  
And draw you into madness? Think of it.  
The very place puts toys of desperation,  
Without more motive, into every brain  
That looks so many fathoms to the sea  
And hears it roar beneath._

— _William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, Act I.4_

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: IN THE WAKE**

Minas Tirith was cold and still this evening. A great shadow had spread over the city as the sun had sunk wearily below the horizon. The sky, normally so vibrant and wondrous at sunset with breath-taking yellows, oranges, and lavenders, was this night gray and solemn. Light faded to a twilight that was chilly and unreal, and the air hung with tense grief and anger. All life wallowed in the coming night, finding no comfort in the promise of the new day. What good could another sunrise do? It could not change what had happened. It could not lift this pall of unspeakable sorrow. Another would make no difference, and this one had simply seen too much.

The stables were dark. They were nestled deep within the sixth gate, and little very light reached inside the covered structure this time of day. This area housed the horses of Gondor's royalty and lords. It was richly crafted, the wooden supports fine and strong, the stalls nicely kept and stuffed with fresh straw. The place was a stately equine palace, the air fresh and warm, the paths clean and swept. The odor of leather and hay was heavy but not unpleasant. Only the best of stable boys and men tended the anjmal, for these horses that bore their lords and ladies could be quite temperamental about their care. Most often the stables were bustling with activity during the day, filled with shouts, running feet, and whickering horses. Now they were empty. Even the animals, normally robust and noisy in private conversation, were withdrawn.

Faramir closed his eyes as he walked. A dull ache had settled behind his brow, and even the dim light of the glowing stoves was too striking and bright. Any other man perhaps might have tripped in confusion while walking so blindly. After all, it was not uncommon for an absent-minded lad to leave a pitchfork propped upon a door or a bucket of water or oats too close to the narrow paths. Also this place was much bigger than most of its kind, filled with winding lanes and a maze of doors and stalls. An ordinary person would have easily lost his bearings without the aid of his sight. But Faramir had lived in Minas Tirith all his life, and many hours had he spent in the stables in his youth. Often he and Boromir had played in the hay when the watchful, chastising eyes of instructors and parents were turned elsewhere. Laughing loudly they had run through these lanes in foolish races, nearly colliding with irate soldiers and hands. He knew well the turns and twists, the sounds and smells, the feel of the dirt floor here and there and all of its potential ruts. He did not need his eyes to navigate.

The steward drew a deep breath. He was so tired. In the days since the disaster at Emyn Nimsîr, he had barely had time to sleep. His body greatly craved a respite. Though he had nearly regained full use of his once wounded shoulder, the old injury still troubled him with soreness. A few times during the dangerous battle in the swamps his arm had nearly failed him. But there was no time to rest, no time to recover. Not now. There was too much to do, too much for which he must fight. There would be time later to sleep. To grieve.

His feet stopped, and he opened his eyes. He had reached his destination. The servant he had luckily encountered and questioned upon entering the stables had been true to his word.

Aragorn was completely still. The shadows shrouded his face from Faramir's gaze, but his gray eyes shone in unshed tears. The steward could feel the waves of anguish his friend exuded, and the air about him was stiff and tense with unbreakable sorrow. The king faced one of the stalls near the rear of the stables. He was silent and cold.

Lightly Faramir stepped closer, but in the deep and dreary emptiness the sound of his feet striking the ground was terribly loud. Hasufel snorted a salutation as he passed, and the great, gray beast shifted in his stall to lean his head towards his master. Absently Faramir paused a moment to run a tired hand down his horse's muzzle. Even Hasufel, so typically arrogant and mindful of only his own desires, was stricken with the chilly darkness clinging to the city. He blinked sympathetic eyes, as if to express condolences, and leaned into Faramir's gentle touch.

Giving the animal one last comforting pat, Faramir drew a deep breath to gather his mettle and continued. Aragorn had not turned at his approach, and the steward distinctly felt as though he was intruding upon some solemn and private moment. In the last few days, he had barely had occasion to speak with his lord. Duty put upon him hefty obligations, and Aragorn's wrath and grief was, according to Éowyn, violent and consuming. Much of the same emotion governed most of Minas Tirith, it seemed, and the city was swept in a storm of restrained rage for what they had lost. Faramir knew this helpless fury well, for it plagued him as much if not more so, denying him what little rest he found, tormenting and twisting his thoughts, staining his soul with shame vile and black. He had been one of the leaders of the attack, after all. He had failed to see through the ruse, and his ignorance, his foolery, had resulted in destruction.

He swallowed the familiar burning in his throat and came to a stop beside his king. If there was little time for mourning, then certainly even less existed for wallowing. He knew that far too much was at stake to be hampered by such strong and unchecked emotions. Over and over again their enemy had proved to be wily and formidable. Faramir was certain that Legolas' fall had been no mistake, that the attack on Emyn Nimsîr had served some greater purpose. So well did these villains understand the workings of Gondor, but even more frightening and disturbing was their manipulation of emotion. Blind rage and sudden action were the natural responses to the loss of a lord, hero, and friend, and Faramir could not deny the wailing of his suspicious mind. They intended for Gondor to retaliate, and to do so quickly. The thought bothered him to no end, for the city screamed for revenge. Aragorn was slipping into despair and ire, desperate to make right this horrid wrong. Would the king deny the vengeful cries of his people, of his lords, of his friends, of his own heart?

Aragorn finally noticed him, and he sighed. The breath quivered with a stifled sob. Faramir watched his friend struggle with the weight of his grief, and in doing so the steward suffered anew the familiar plight of rage and sorrow. _Legolas… Why?_

They stood in an oppressive silence for a long time, the king and his lord, for neither could even begin to amend the terrible wrong done to them. The misery was left to fester like an open wound, bleeding and swollen with unshed tears, unspoken apologies, and unwanted responsibilities. Then Aragorn suddenly moved, taking a tentative step closer to the stall.

Arod veritably glowed despite the hanging shadows. He knew what had happened, but he stood tall and proud and statuesque. Like the Elf he loved, the animal shone brightly in even the darkest of hours. _Had loved._ Faramir's breath hitched in his throat. _Do not think of it!_

Large black eyes stared at Aragorn, piercing, questioning. Once, many years ago, Faramir had been told that he mastered both man and beast. He had never much believed in that rubbish; he was an ordinary man, a second son, a simple warrior. Still, despite his humility, he had come to have some faith in the assertion. The tame and mild horses of Gondor were little like the fiery, complex animals of Rohan, however, and he had learned his inadequacy quickly when he had come into possession of Hasufel. Éowyn had often told him that the Rohirrim bred their mounts to display such a vibrant power, such an ardent will. Many days had he spent in the company of these magnificent horses, but still he felt terribly ignorant of their minds and pathetically ill-equipped in commanding them.

And Arod, he found, was more difficult to read than most.

Emotion flickered in those depthless orbs. Arod answered to only his master, as Faramir had come to learn, for he was a skittish beast whose devotion was fierce and undeniable. The white horse watched Aragorn as the king reached forth a hand, trepidation and mistrust clear in his tense form. Arod was perceptive, uncannily so. Legolas had once explained on a scouting trip that Arod was more an Elvish horse at heart, as steeds bred by the Elves tended to sense and understand more than a simple horse could. But Arod was much more than that. He was wise and ageless, valiant and quiet. Faramir knew without a doubt that those characteristics had drawn Legolas to him. He was also certain that Arod knew now his master was gone.

Arod snorted and stepped about his stall, pulling upon the halter rope that tethered him to the gate. It was as if the horse could sense Aragorn's guilt, though Faramir imagined that was not so difficult a feat. The king wore his shame and rage plainly for all to see, and Arod recoiled from his hand as though the fingers were coated in blood. The white stallion whickered his dismay, snorting and pawing at the hay in his stall desperately. Hurt passed over Aragorn's face. Silence followed, and somehow this silly moment became paramount to their recovery, to their very sanity. It was as if the forgiveness of a horse would sway what was to come. It would change the course of a war and shift the strength of men. The minute lingered, creating a treacherous rift between hope and despair, between what remained of their future and what could never be changed of their past.

Then Arod relented. Perhaps the desire for comfort was simply too strong, beating down whatever resentment and hatred he held for Aragorn. He visibly relaxed, bowing his head in submission and breathing softly. Aragorn as well sagged in relief. Apology had been offered and absolution returned. The king stepped inside Arod's stall slowly and cautiously, his eyes never leaving those of the horse. But it seemed to Faramir that Arod would fight no longer. His master had fallen in battle. Such a fact could not be denied.

Aragorn sighed softly as his hand touched Arod's muzzle. The horse was hesitant at first at the caress as though the gesture of solace was unwanted or uncomfortable, but he calmed in a matter of seconds. The king's gentle fingers stroked the horse's neck slowly, and Aragorn leaned weakly into the animal's chest. A few whispered Elvish words left the king's lips, but Faramir could not understand them. The shadows receded for this moment of comfort, and Faramir felt something inside him begin to throb anew.

"How could this have happened?" Aragorn's words were so soft that for a moment the steward doubted his lord had spoken at all. Tiredly Aragorn's shoulders slumped, his hands stroking the length of Arod's side. "How could we have let this happen?"

Heat claimed Faramir's body as he stood there. Aragorn's tone had shaken with the violence of his anguish, and that quivering had nearly taken Faramir's hapless heart as well. How desperately he wished to understand, to offer his king and friend some semblance of relief with an answer. All through his life he had prided himself on his ability to reason, for his mind was sharp and apt in observation and understanding. Now, however, his intelligence afforded him naught but frustration and fury. No amount of logic could unravel the grotesque and elusive truth behind the violence they had suffered, behind their loss.

Any words seemed trite and shallow, so he said nothing, standing perfectly still. Aragorn abruptly turned and slammed his fist into the side of the stall. Arod's ears flattened and he snorted, stepping around restlessly. Aragorn's other hand slammed against the wood with bang, and the king fell against it with a choked sob. For a long moment he knelt there, braced against the old planks, his shoulders shaking. An awkward hurt stabbed into Faramir. "I cannot do this," Aragorn whispered in a clenched tone. "Ai, I cannot bear this! He has been at my side for so long… For so long have I had his voice offering advice and encouragement. Now… this damning silence…"

Faramir swallowed the lump in his throat and lowered his eyes. It felt terribly wrong to stand so quietly and witness Aragorn's despair, but he could think of no way to act and of no words to speak. He had come to the stables to tell Aragorn that the lords had assembled for the evening's council. But that seemed inappropriate, though duty dictated otherwise. He stood still and watched and listened, feeling the guilty wretch. Though he considered himself Aragorn's close friend, a weak moment such as this he had never before witnessed. These were the sorts of intimate instances that the king often shared with his queen, or with Legolas or Gimli. He deemed himself rather poorly stationed to aid Aragorn in assuaging his misery.

Eventually Aragorn's rushed breath grew softer and slower, and his tense form slumped slightly as the iron drive of his rage left it. He straightened, gathering what he could of his confidence. A grieving brother was replaced by the stoic leader.

To Arod the man offered a final gentle pat. If horses could look such a thing, Faramir thought Arod's expression sad and lonely. Then Aragorn turned. His face was grim and tense as he stepped from the stall. The steward and the king met each other's gaze. Aragorn reached forward and grasped Faramir's shoulder firmly. "I cannot lose you as well," whispered the king. After that, he turned and, with all that remained of his power and pride in his stride, walked away.

* * *

The meeting commenced not long after that. Gathered once more around the great table were the Lords of Gondor. Solemn were their faces and heavy were their hearts. Many seats customarily filled were now empty. Voices that often spoke in advice and wisdom were silent. It was disturbing to say the least. The last rays of a dying sun bled into the palatial hall. Through the open balconies a cold evening breeze came, whispering a soft lament that no one cared to hear. The pain was too close. The grief was too near. The black banners hung limply, and the White Tree seemed to sag upon them with the weight of war.

Faramir lifted tired eyes. The quiet loomed over them like a terrible monster seeking to devour whatever courage and strength that survived. The steward feared that it might. Each man present radiated such fierce frustration, such hate. So much had been lost and he feared the fighting was far from over.

Gimli tensed beside him. Faramir turned slightly to look upon his stout friend and found his heart again straining. For days Gimli had done naught but demand swift action. Waiting, in the Dwarf's vocal opinion, was only betraying Legolas. Faramir had wished to agree, for his own heart desired nothing other than what Gimli proposed, but he knew they could not be so hasty. Aragorn's own foul mood of late had resulted in a few clashes between the two. Faramir knew little of the trio's friendship, but a few times in the past he had heard Gimli and Legolas mention their flight across the plains of Rohan during the War of the Ring. The bond the man, the Elf, and the Dwarf had formed during their perilous ventures had persevered for years, strong in mutual love and devotion. Now, without Legolas, the comfortable affection they had shared became a violent struggle for absolution and understanding, for a way to make this somehow right.

Faramir could stand the sight of Gimli's tormented face no longer, so he sighed and looked down again. There was no typical murmur of hushed conversation. He supposed the others were as distracted as he by the empty seats about the council table. Legolas' chair, of course, was painfully vacant. Absent as well was Imrahil. It had been more than a week since the Prince of Dol Amroth had departed for his manor, and the lord would supposedly return on the morrow with as many troops as he could spare. He had not heard anything further of Imrahil's wife, but he prayed the lady was well. Imrahil would need all his strength to aid Gondor in her struggle.

Éomer had returned to them, at least, and Faramir was glad for it. The young King of Rohan now sat at Aragorn's left, and though his face was a bit haggard, his eyes were bright with vigor. Éowyn had spent many hours at her brother's side these days past, personally aiding him in his recovery from his wound. The injury he had received at Emyn Nimsîr was not mortally dangerous, but it had been serious and slow to heal. Éomer had been stabbed with a spear through the shoulder when he had been thrown from a wounded Firefoot. Both the horse and the rider had been pulled to safety by loyal and daring Rohirrim, and neither would be permanently impaired. It was a stroke of luck in an otherwise disastrous chain of events.

Other seats were empty. Many of the lords and leaders had left Minas Tirith on orders to reinforce their own cities and establishments. Faramir had once hoped that this table would forever be one of peace. So long had Gondor choked and writhed in the grip of Mordor's poisonous and ambitious hands. In the black plume of terrible evil reaching from Mount Doom, all light had faded and the glory of Gondor had sunken into a mire of despair and desolation. Faramir hated what war had done to his family. It had twisted his noble father into a bent and bitter ruler with no hope of salvation. It had taken his brother. It had ravaged his home. When the heir of Isildur had been returned to the throne, Faramir had allowed himself a long sigh of relief and a spark of hope. Sunlight had pierced the gloom of Mordor's putrid smoke, and for the first time in many years, the White City had glowed with pride and power. Without the press of war, men came alive again, prospering and flourishing. It had seemed in the face of such bright days that peace had finally come to Gondor. The future had been wonderful and certain.

Given all he had seen, he should have been less naïve.

Aragorn sat stiffly. He darted venomous eyes about the table, but few had the audacity or courage to meet his glare. There were no pleasantries, no formalities, no smiles or friendly whispers or knowing nods. Death afforded them no such gaiety. "We have little time," Aragorn began coolly, as though he blamed each present for the disastrous course of things, "and even fewer options. Our enemy lays hidden, waiting for the exact moment to strike us. I will _not_ have another town destroyed, another village ravaged, another soul lost. I want answers, and I will have them now."

The table was silent at first. Darting eyes met, sharing brief looks of fear and doubt. Then Irehadde grunted and turned away. "There are no answers, my Lord. I spoke just minutes ago with Holis, and he could tell me nothing. Nothing that we do not already know." The Dúnadan sighed, greatly irritated. "They honor no treaties, no code of military conduct. They attack ruthlessly and without warning. At every turn they have anticipated, calculated, and countered. The Emperor can tell us nothing of their size–"

"Rubbish," growled Gimli. The Dwarf scowled angrily, his eyes dark and distant. "They cannot possibly boast much more. Though we lost Emyn Nimsîr, we struck a hard blow upon them. Surely a force grander than what we have encountered could not be so silent or so quick. How could an army of great size escape our knowledge? Gondor's intelligence is not so faulty, I hope!"

Faramir shook his head slowly as he considered Gimli's words. "It is not," he murmured. The Dwarf certainly spoke with logic despite his frustration. He believed it to be rather unlikely the Easterlings could yet be numerous. Many had died at Emyn Nimsîr. Their enemy's victory had come to them at great price. Rebel forces were typically a vocal minority, a splinter political group driven to violence by insatiable ambition or perceived injustices. He was relatively certain that they made use of such cowardly but strategic tactics because they stood no chance against Gondor's army, which boasted thousands. It was the only explanation that offered any sense. "I must agree with Gimli," he finally volunteered, breaking from his reverie. "Many of their men died at Emyn Nimsîr. I cannot fathom that more await us in the shadows. We have already seen the bulk of their forces."

"Then let us act!" barked Irehadde. The man flashed raging eyes to Faramir. The steward's temper boiled at the man's less than courteous glare. He knew not what he had done to foster such distemper between them, but with the passing of each day's worth of insults, he was beginning to not care. If Irehadde believed himself to be a better steward to the king than he, that was certainly his right. But thought and act were assuredly two very different prospects, and Irehadde was far too prejudiced and crude to support his claims. "Enough speculation, my Lord. There is not the time to sit and wonder and guess and question! We are no nation of weaklings or cowards. This is no country of beggars and dullards! They have played us for fools. They have maimed and murdered, raped and plundered! We can stand for this no longer!"

Aragorn's tone was cold and his face was tight and hurt. "I will not randomly make war. We invite only death and defeat with such reckless and thoughtless intentions." Irehadde immediately dropped his eyes and leaned back in his chair, stewing thankfully in silence.

Éomer shook his head, his eyes dark and worried. "Fate is cold to us these days. There must be _something_, a clue, a hint of their camps or their movements. Without information, we will strike blindly into the shadows. Too much has been lost to afford another foolish venture." Once more did Faramir's lungs clench ever so slightly as he watched the shame, grief, and fury swirl in his brother-in-law's hazel gaze. The young king had not taken the news of Legolas' loss well. By the time Éomer had regained consciousness from his own wounds, it been too late to do anything but simply reveal to him the terrible fact that the Elf had fallen. More striking was Éomer's pain, for he above any was responsible for that ill-fated defense. Although Faramir valued all life as precious and beautiful, the thought of the demise of an immortal was all that much more crushing, and the steward knew that Éomer felt this keenly. It was not a pain to which one became easily accustomed, and the young king was struggling with it as plainly as any of them. "Surely the Emperor could offer _some_ information. The next battle will be decisive; I know it. They will strike us if we do not strike them first, and we _must_ if we intend to win this war."

"Aye!" rumbled Gimli. "Listen to him! We must wage our battle."

Aragorn sighed softly. The balls of his hands he pressed to his eyes tiredly, and his face broke in exhaustion and grief that had become frighteningly characteristic of late. "None of you tell me things I do not already understand," he said, but his voice was without heat or criticism. "I know these things in the very depths of my heart. They will take advantage of our delay. If they have reinforcements, they will build their strength in the days we foolishly give them. If they intend to attack, they will finalize plans and perfect strategies in the moments we delay. We must make our move now, when we at least know we hold an advantage in size. I want options. I want ideas."

They were silent for a long time. Tired minds struggled to comprehend a convoluted situation, but the fog of doubt and fear left reason and logic as poor instruments. They were still trapped in this terrible fog where each potential path led to an uncertain and potentially perilous outcome, only now it was made worse by a driving need for vengeance. Faramir's thoughts were winding and endless, but for all his want he could not form a cohesive strategy. He lifted his eyes and settled them begrudgingly on Irehadde. "And the Emperor knew naught of their location?" It was a silly question; their inability to gather dependable intelligence had been verified numerous times before. Still, perhaps something had been missed.

For once, the man seemed cool and restrained. "Nay," he responded glumly. "The Easterlings reportedly discovered their spies and had them put to death. Only one escaped, and Holis' men have been unable to infiltrate the ranks since that time."

Silence. The question itched in Faramir's throat. Much had been said in days past of this topic, but there was little information to be had. He had to imagine, despite his dislike of the Dúnadan, that Irehadde would not be so cruel or callous to deny news of matter if he had come to possess it. "And of the prisoners?"

Again, a hungry emptiness took the moment, and Irehadde only shook his head sadly. At Emyn Nimsîr, at least fifty men between had been taken captive, or so they believed. This count was based solely on the reports of witnesses, for the retreat had been too hasty and panicked for an accurate body count to be taken. Among those missing for certain was Ulpheth, and Holis had been quite saddened at the report. Most of the rest were of the Haradrim, but a few of Gondor's officers had disappeared as well. Of whether they had been left dead on the battlefield or not, none could be certain. Perhaps hope remained in their safety, in their continued life, and Faramir wanted to cling to that iota of faith. Yet he could not get the image of the dying, bleeding and broken in the grass, from his mind. Hope! What a terrible, cruel thing. What hope could there possibly be?

"Monsters," fumed Gimli. His voice was vicious and seething, his eyes venomous, his face dark and malevolent. "They will torture those they have taken. If not for information then for sport." Aragorn flinched. "What sort of peace can come to those unfortunate souls? To those left on the battlefield? To those _killed_? Aragorn, for Legolas' sake, we must take our vengeance!" The Dwarf flashed a glare about the table, as if daring those present to contest his declaration. No one had to courage to so much as meet his violent gaze. Suddenly Gimli's face broke, as if in epiphany. His tone softened immediately. "Refugees still come from Emyn Arnen, yes?"

Faramir cocked an eyebrow, perplexed by the sudden change in the Dwarf's demeanor. "Yes," he answered, "though the bulk of the people have arrived in Minas Tirith already. A garrison of soldiers remains in the manor with the final group. I believe they are to come on the morrow." The refugees from Ithilien and the surrounding areas had been traveling to the White City in small groups with an escort of soldiers since the order to withdraw had been made. They were too easy a target otherwise.

Gimli's blank expression slowly hardened, and his eyes gained an excited edge. "Perhaps we ought to delay their departure," he suggested. The steward was surprised at the sly note in his stout friend's voice. All eyes turned to the Dwarf in anxious confusion. "Aragorn, if we cannot strike them in their lair, we can lure them to us."

The proposition was at first met with a tenuous silence. Aragorn's sorrowful eyes narrowed with interest and a glint of furious hope. "What do you suggest, Master Dwarf?" he asked evenly.

Gimli proceeded to explain, and as he did, his words came faster and faster with pride and excitement. Faramir listened, though he did not know why he bothered. The minute his friend spoke the first sentence, he guessed the outcome. And he was not sure what he thought of it. "We simply use their craven tactics against them. The refugees are slow in traveling, and they will bear with them women and children. If we strip from them the protection of your men, Faramir, then they will be an easy and open target."

The comment was at first met with silence. Then Éomer leaned forward with a bit of a grimace. "You propose to use the people of Emyn Arnen as bait?" he inquired somewhat incredulously.

Gimli turned to him. "Think of it, Éomer! It would be a lure they would not be able to resist, the vile demons! Too long have they tricked and trapped us. It is high time we do the same to them, and strike them hard in their floundering. To them it will appear an easy massacre. However, if we can surreptitiously trail the train of refugees with soldiers, we can catch them in the act and take them easily. We have companies of rangers at our disposal; maintaining a distant yet careful eye on the civilians is conceivable."

The logic was undeniable, if not a bit disgusting. Faramir said, "I do not like the idea of manipulating innocents as such. We would not be able to assure them of their safety, and there would be no guarantee that the Easterlings would attack at all–"

"There is hardly a better option!" Gimli roared. Obviously his frayed temper, rattled nerves, and unending grief allotted him little in the way of control or perspective.

Aragorn's voice was surprisingly soothing, as if the thought of any plan at all had given him great ease. "Peace, son of Glóin. I am sure Faramir met no insult with his concerns, and certainly they are valid issues. Still, the idea has much merit."

"The citizens of Gondor should be willing to aid in their kingdom's defense efforts," Irehadde declared proudly. Dark eyes glowed in muted excitement. "Should we ask – "

"We cannot ask that of them!" exclaimed Faramir angrily. His hands slapped onto the table and he rose from his chair. "We cannot place them in such mortal danger! These are _people_, not cattle that we can simply herd to the slaughter as we see fit!"

Irehadde rose as well, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. "I realize they are _your_ people, Lord Faramir, but they are citizens of this nation and as such they have an obligation to aid in its protection and to obey their king!"

"Enough!" yelled Aragorn. Flashing gray eyes glanced between the two arguing men, and the harsh command was enough to silence them. Faramir held his breath, swallowing his contempt. His body remained stiff with his anger, but the shame was beginning to irk him. Normally he could control his temper, but the combination of his exhaustion, his grief, and Irehadde's condescension made his calm difficult to maintain.

Irehadde's nostrils flared, but he only grunted and looked away from Faramir. The awkward silence continued for a moment more before Faramir sank tiredly into his chair. Ashamed, he could not look at Aragorn. Inside him there was a battle between duty and honor, between right and wrong. He counted himself a man that held to his principles, who maintained pride and dignity. Even if he had not been the favored son, he was now a lord and a leader. And he could not, with any shred of self-respect, allow his people to be manipulated. They trusted him to guide and protect them and their interests. They gave to him their allegiance, and such a precious gift was not to be taken lightly. He would not break his vow to honor their pledge of loyalty. Thus no other option was afforded him, and though the words burned in his throat, he would not hold them back. "If this is the will of the council," he said softly, "then I shall be bait with them."

Aragorn grimaced again. A quiet moment followed, for the soft announcement hung on the still air in all of its terrible implications. Then Éomer found the courage to speak. "No, Faramir," the young man murmured, shaking his head. He appeared absolutely aghast with the idea. "That is far too dangerous!"

However, the steward was adamant. "I will not send my people into peril and cower in the shadows. If they are to face the enemy, then I will join them. You would do the same."

Éomer's eyes narrowed at his brother's comment, for it was true enough. His face fell and he looked down, the weight of leadership clearly pressing upon his good intentions and noble ambitions. "I would," he whispered, the whiteness of his face somehow distressing. Éomer had a boyish handsomeness, a certain innocence that many found endearing. It made Faramir's spirit ache to see him torn with so many grievances, so many burdens, the sort that should have never come to steal youth. They had lost Legolas because of his choices on the battlefield. That was not something with which he could ever come to peace. "I would."

"Then you understand," Faramir said. "You know this. What better lure is there than the Steward of Gondor?" His words came quickly with his excitement, the logic racing about his mind like lightning. "They would not pass up such an opportunity."

Aragorn shook his head, his once tense and dark face now frightened and hesitant. "Faramir, please, this is madness. For such a plan to work, the army would be forced to keep its distance. You would be left unprotected."

But the steward would not be dissuaded. He leaned closer to the king, his eyes blazing and his heart thundering. "You know I speak the truth, Aragorn. The attack on Emyn Nimsîr was no accident. It was no act of senseless violence or pointless arrogance. They meant to bring Legolas down. You _know_." Aragorn averted fiery eyes, his breath short and hot with his grief. Of course he understood. And Faramir could see his friend's deep guilt over their foolishness in allowing the campaign, over their inability to predict and prevent. But he also saw desperation and fear. _"I cannot lose you as well."_ He had to say more. He had to assure Aragorn that this was their best option, for he did indeed feel such conviction in the depths of his soul. It was dangerous and grim and terrifying, but it was painfully and undeniably right. "They came for Legolas," whispered the steward. Aragorn looked up, his face bathed in the dying rays of sun, in ghostly shadow and golden light. Faramir's eyes were bright with purpose. It all made such striking sense to him. "They came for him, Aragorn, and they took him from us. Given the chance, they will come for me as well."

The stoic and strong king was gone once more. In his place was a yearning soul searching for absolution, for an end to this. "Are you certain?"

Faramir nodded. "Yes," he said strongly, "but they will fail."

"Aye." Gimli looked between the two men as they turned to face him. He was alive with the thought of answers and vengeance, of victory. "Prince Imrahil will return with hundreds of fresh troops. If the Lord Steward's rangers and Dol Amroth's reinforcements trail the refugees but remain hidden, they will easily fall into our trap. We will crush them. Now is our time, Aragorn. Let us take it!" The king and the Dwarf held each other's gazes for a moment, and Faramir felt their tenuous truce as though it were a tangible thing. Only in action could their two souls find healing.

Éomer nodded his assent. "The Riders of Rohan are as always under your command, Aragorn. We will _not_ lose this battle. My men are eager to strike back after Emyn Nimsîr, and we will never allow another of Gondor's lords to fall. We are prepared to do whatever it takes to win this war."

Even Irehadde was supportive. The Dúnadan's eyes were narrowed in thought. "Yes, my King. If our forces maintain sufficient distance, a veil of secrecy will shroud our very presence. I shall spread the word about Minas Tirith that Lord Faramir rides to Emyn Arnen to escort what remains of his people and whatever… _spies_ remain in the city will certainly deliver the news to their commanders. Arrogantly and quickly will they act. Their deaths will be their reward."

"And the Southrons?" asked Aragorn.

"I shall ask Emperor Holis his opinion on the matter. Should he digress, I believe we ought to plan this trap without him. However, I imagine he will be most agreeable. The loss of his men has struck him hard, my King." What Irehadde left unsaid was clear enough to all present: the Southrons would retaliate for the crimes done against their nation by these dissidents, and they would do so violently. The thought of so much more bloodshed turned Faramir's stomach, but he merely clenched his jaw and calmed the rushed and erratic beat of his heart.

The suggestions appealed to Aragorn. Whatever rage and doubt that had before hampered him was gone, and he spoke clearly and with renewed purpose. "Make all the necessary preparations. Send out messengers to greet Lord Imrahil and advise him of the situation. Speak nothing of the true plan at this time to his company; I fear we cannot be certain who we can trust. We must move quickly. Only the most skilled of the soldiers will join the war party. We must minimize the threat to the innocents involved. The very best, do you understand?"

A flurry of curt nods followed. Excitement crackled in the air, breaking the pall of despair. "And what of you, my King? What will you do?" asked Irehadde.

Aragorn opened his mouth to respond, but then thought better of his answer and did not speak. Faramir saw one of the king's advisors, who had remained frightfully silent throughout the assembly, settle Aragorn with a mindful stare. A brief look of frustrated and indignant anger claimed Aragorn, but eventually he only sighed and accepted the facts. "I… will remain behind," the king declared. Faramir truly did feel for Aragorn; this silly law had effectively bound his hands. "There are matters of formality and diplomacy with which I must contend."

Faramir stiffened at the mention of the treatise. He was aware of Holis' proposition and frankly he did not care for it. In the wake of Emyn Nimsîr, the panicked rush of work had provided him with little time to discuss this "treaty" with Aragorn. Too much had happened to allow for clear thoughts on any important matter, and though Faramir had great admiration and confidence in his king, he was afraid Aragorn might be swayed by his emotions and too quickly make choices he might later come to regret. _There is a fine mindset,_ his conscience growled at him. _What would you say to him, given the chance? Your mood is foul and your thoughts are dark! Are those reasons enough to dissuade a nation from what could be a peaceful resolution?_ He could not compound Aragorn's dilemma with such groundless concerns. He was not even sure what about this treaty bothered him. Perhaps it was lingering distrust for the Southrons, though they had certainly proved their truthfulness at Emyn Nimsîr. Perhaps it was simply a combination of common sense and experience. Agreements formed amidst war rarely lasted, and they were often made to be broken. Still, were such misgivings reason enough to encourage delay? He suspected Aragorn would not act rashly, but he could no longer be sure.

With Legolas was gone, Aragorn was not who he had been.

Éomer was speaking, and Faramir focused his attention upon his brother. "What of the Elves, Aragorn?" The question was laden with grief and shame. It was a topic no one wanted to address, and no one had until that moment. "Can we count upon their aid? Certainly they would be a boon to us now."

Aragorn sighed softly. "I have spoken with Valandil, an Elf of Imladris with whom Legolas shared confidence. He has already pledged the loyalty of the colony to Gondor." The king stood tiredly, as though the conversation had abruptly turned to his dislike. Faramir imagined it surely had. "I received word from the North. Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond Peredhil, ride south. I will ask them to…" The king's words failed him, and his eyes misted. Yet he managed to regain himself enough to finish his thought. He drew a deep breath to steady his voice before continuing. "I will ask them to assume command when they arrive."

_Assume command._ The words were wretched in their finality, and Faramir felt again the terrible swell of his grief. The room grew silent. Desperate were their hearts, desperate and dying to change the truth of the matter. Though it was completely irrational, Faramir felt that allowing other Elves to lead Legolas' forces was the lowest and most heinous betrayal possible. Logic dictated otherwise. The Elves of Ithilien were powerful and invaluable. With Legolas gone, Faramir knew they suffered. The sons of Elrond, great lords and leaders themselves, would ease their grief and guilt. And yet… _I cannot accept this! I will not!_

No more was said. Aragorn turned, the emptiness clearly ailing him, and stiffly departed their company. Faramir knew what poisoned the moment, what tormented minds and pierced hearts with delirious anguish. Winning this battle… winning this war… It mattered little, for the damage had already and irreparably been done.

* * *

Faramir found his wife in bed when he finally returned to their chambers. On light feet he stepped inside their blackened room, closing the door softly behind him and securing it. Then he stood still a moment. The night swelled around him, promising rest to a weary and aching body, whispering an ideal peace for a mind drowning in too many concerns and too much turmoil. It would be an empty offer, he knew. Though he was weary and his wound was troubling him, he was far too alert to sleep easily. The plans he had recently discussed with Éomer and Valandil were fresh to his thoughts, and he was unable to divert his attention from them. The conversation had been tense with unspoken worries. Their hearts were eager in this venture, but Faramir had silently held reservations he doubted the others shared. They were too steeped in guilt and rage to consider the danger of the situation they faced. So much could go wrong. So much was beyond their control. Despite this, Éomer and Valandil spoke confidently of supplies and soldiers, of skill and strength. Though he had hid it well, the young Elf from Rivendell had been stricken with grief and anger, fervently agreeing with whatever his comrades suggested as though easy compliance might make swifter their revenge. And Éomer had expressed the same willingness to act, the same hasty fury, when the two men had shared a few brief words after. _"I cannot live with this guilt, Faramir. I cannot let this go!"_

None of them could.

Moonlight streamed through the open window, shedding an ethereal light upon the bed. Éowyn's hair spread over the pillows like strands of the finest gold. As he gazed upon his wife, peace finally came to him, enough at least to quiet his raging thoughts. She often had this effect on him, and he was unbelievably grateful for it. Though he had lost many things in his life, he had gained so much more through her. Cool and clear as a calmly falling spring rain, she was a balm to tired muscles and a fatigued spirit. She was a gift to him, and he loved her more than he could ever find the words to express. Rarely in his life had he felt anything so strongly, so deeply. Even more wonderful than this, though, was the reciprocity he had come to cherish. He knew he had awoken life in her once defeated spirit. He had saved her, just as she had saved him. They were not the sort to openly display their affections. Both of them had been taught to hide emotion and maintain decorum because that was what was expected of people in their station during such dark times. In private, though, the depth of their love was apparent and profound. Few words were ever shared of it as neither of them cared for silly and romantic frivolities. Faramir had come to learn that there were many times in life when words were just unneeded distraction.

Realizing he was still standing dumbly next to the door, he gave a small smile before stepping further into their chamber. Absently he pulled his feet from his boots, his fingers fumbling with the ties of his jerkin and then his tunic. The thought of Éowyn's warm body and the cool sheets against his skin was terribly alluring, and he changed quickly into a loose pair of breeches. With a satisfied sigh he slid into the bed and gathered his wife into his arms.

Éowyn had obviously only been lightly dozing. Her bright blue eyes opened slightly as she settled against his bare chest. The faintest of smiles graced her lips as his hands stroked her hair. Faramir breathed deeply, closing his eyes and sinking into the bed. She smelled of rain and herbs; she had spent long hours of late in the Houses of Healing. She felt delicate in his embrace, her skin smooth, soft, and pale, her body lithe and slender. He wondered not for the first time how he had come to be so fortunate.

The beat of her heart against his was beginning to lull him into sleep. Gone were the incessant despairs and doubts, and Faramir welcomed the familiar contentment beckoning him. For the moment he could forget. He could forget his king and the dark threat of his grief and anger. He could forget about the war still looming savagely before his frightened nation. He could forget this ridiculous plot he had concocted. And he could forget about Legolas, about how he had suffered and how they had done nothing to save him.

He could forget, but he did not. Vaguely he wondered if he should tell her of what they had planned, of the peril that was to come. But he decided against it. He had no wish to frighten her.

"I told her he was never coming back today."

The whisper was so soft that for a moment he believed the words to be the call of the breeze or a figment of a dream. But he felt Éowyn shift ever so slightly against him, nuzzling into his neck for comfort. He opened his eyes. "I had feared that she would not understand, but she did. I could see it in her eyes long before I even spoke the words." Faramir felt his wife's sorrow, the strength of it caressing to life his own misery again. "She understands death too well."

Éowyn said no more. War destroyed without regard to race or creed. Still, it always seemed to strike children the hardest. It was a cruel thing to force upon a young mind the fact of loss and suffering. Whatever innocence Fethra had once held was obviously gone, stolen first by her parents' deaths and now Legolas' loss. In the child Éowyn saw herself, sympathizing with the pain she experienced when her own parents died. It was a hurt with which many were familiar, including Faramir himself. To this very day he remembered the fierce anger and grief he had known at his mother's decline. Her slow death had turned his father mad with despair. The steward swallowed the lump in his throat. So many had lost loved ones. Youth was a precious gift these days that was far too easily spent.

"You can do no more for her than what you are," Faramir finally said, his voice muffled as he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. "Harder would have been her fall if she clung to hope."

She did not answer him immediately. The logic was cruel and cold, and Faramir nearly regretted the words. Éowyn then sighed softly and laid a slender, cool hand over his heart. "Days ago she asked me to take her to see him, as if I… as though I could somehow bring him back to her." Her voice shook with restrained grief. She was silent, and minutes passed during which Faramir felt the wretch for his inability to ease her pain. "Days ago she thought the last things he had said to her were true. She told me he promised to never leave her. How could he offer something like that?"

Faramir's lips moved of their own accord. "He could not have known," he surmised.

Whether she was satisfied with his response or not he could not tell. "Lady Ioreth has cared for Fethra better than I have. The girl flourishes in her presence. She will be well there." Somehow those words added finality to the topic. It would mean little if Gondor fell in this war, but for now the child was safe in the Houses of Healing with a new family full of love. Thinking of her growing up in such a compassionate environment pleased him. Perhaps, one day when Fethra was older and all of this was only a distant and hazy nightmare, she would not remember the torment done to her in her childhood. Blessed ignorance would be small compensation for Fethra's loss, but it was a consolation at least to imagine it.

The dance of her fingers against his skin tickled him. She trailed her touch to his shoulder where the red welt of his old injury was beginning to scar. The new flesh was tender and warm. She rested her hand over it and Faramir drew a deep breath. "He did so much for all of us. For you. For me. I feel like we are traitors to that. I feel we are doing nothing for him." He knew she felt her inability to do more for the girl was akin to betraying Legolas' trust. That was not the case, but he could find no words to comfort her. There was so much guilt, and it spread over them all. Éowyn and Éomer. Gimli. Aragorn. They had _all_ let Legolas go.

The wind whispered its mournful song. Faramir closed his eyes again as he struggled to reconcile the wants of his heart and his mind. Once more the pains of the day came to him, demanding attention. The plan pounded into him with a cruel intensity, and suddenly he could not stand to keep it silent. If nothing else, speaking would release him from the burden of secrecy. "We ride tomorrow." His voice was booming and vulgar in the quiet. "We will meet the refugees from Emyn Arnen and lure the enemy into battle."

His will faltered, and he said no more. Desperately he waited, focusing all his senses upon his wife's form in his arms, his own body tense and yearning. He wondered if she would understand, if she could accept his duty. The thought of her upset was more torturous than he had envisioned, and he momentarily regretted speaking at all. The silence grew more and more uncomfortable, prolonging his disquiet. But his wife was wiser than for which most gave her credit. She asked no questions and demanded no answers. She did not plead or become cross. As he told her his decision, she gave to him her own. "I will come with you."

There was no doubt, no hesitation. He supposed he expected no less of her. She was strong and powerful, and those concerned were as much her people as they were his. She was far too valiant to allow others to face such danger while she remained safely hidden. Never had Éowyn cared for the restraint placed upon her by ladyship; many times had she tested its limits in the past, most recently when she had fought with her kin at Pelennor Fields. Faramir had great faith in her.

He had seen the brutality of the Easterlings, however. He knew of the horrors of which these demon men were capable. She had not witnessed their atrocities, and he had no wish to subject her to the harrowing and haunting images, much less to the dangers battle with the Easterlings entailed. Still, he respected and admired her far too much to deny her. He would not do her such a dishonor.

So he only tightened his arms about his wife, sighing into her hair. He was too numb to consider the consequences of what had just transpired. Instead, he relished the softness of her skin beneath his callused fingers, the smell of her hair, the heat of her body. The pale moon set her aglow with beauty that made him feel utterly unworthy.

Éowyn lifted her head from his chest and for the first time met his gaze. Her eyes were bright and alive in a dark swirl of emotion. Her fingers came to the side of his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. His larger hand cupped hers, pressing it to his skin. Two souls wreathed in terrible melancholy strained towards each other, searching desperately for some source of solace, of comfort. She leaned in and kissed him, tenderly at first, but desire kindled within them both and the moment became passionate. Faramir swept his hands down her body as she moved on top of him, caressing silky skin, relishing the simple sense of her all about him. The straps of her chemise fell from slender shoulders, and fire enveloped them.

No more words were said that night. Two people, body and soul, became one. The light of their love was enough to ward away the worries, the grief, the dark and cold shadows. They lost themselves in each other, offering comfort, finding peace. For the moment, there was no death, no war. This night was given to them, and they hungrily took it. There was no certainty in tomorrow.


	19. Always a Whisper

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER NINETEEN: ALWAYS A WHISPER**

"Hasufel, why must you be so _insufferable_?"

Faramir's whispered words received no response despite their exasperation, for the massive gray horse seemed quite content to ignore his master's annoyance and continue unabashed with his mulish ways. Life, in all of its ambitions and inclinations, was a beautiful thing that was often too easily stolen. Free will was an awesome gift, and each being, whether large or small, great or insignificant, deserved to act under its own volition. Each to his own. Yet he wished that Hasufel might for once just submit and behave. He was too tired, and the day was far too young for such nonsense.

The steward rested his hands on his hips as he stepped into the stall. Hasufel snorted and proudly raised his head, his reins dangling idly from his bridle. The gray form was tucked into the corner of the area, as though the fool horse thought he might be able to hide his great mass in what remained of the previous night's shadows. Had Faramir not been so vexed he might have found the situation humorous. As it was, he only grunted his displeasure and reached for the reins. Hasufel would not be caught so easily, though, and the horse whipped back his head with a snort. Large eyes were vehement and suspicious. After two years, one might have supposed that Hasufel would have long grown to accept and obey him as Roheryn did Aragorn or Firefoot did Éomer. He seemed to enjoy riling his owner far too much to ever change his ways. _I swear I will never understand this beast!_

That, of course, was not entirely true. He knew the reason for Hasufel's distemper this morning. In the adjacent stall, Windfola whickered loudly, as if sniggering at their situation. Given their common breeding and rearing, it was logical to assume that these steeds of the Rohirrim would get long well together. This could not be farther from the actuality of it. Hasufel absolutely despised Windfola. Éowyn's horse was typically a small, demure beast, but he was of the same playful sort as others of his kind were. Rarely did he let an opportunity to rile the greater horse pass him unfulfilled. This morning was no exception.

"Enough of this foolery, both of you!" snapped Faramir, his patience frayed beyond gentility. Both horses fell silent at the clenched wrath in his voice, but the man knew from experience that this peace would be a transient thing. To the frightened stable boys, he said, "Get the Lady's mount from his stall. I will tend to my own." The lads nodded, wide-eyed at the display, and then went about his orders. They had summoned him when they had been unable to near Hasufel's massive form to properly saddle him. The fiery antics of these horses were something to which Faramir doubted they were accustomed.

It took a few more minutes of cajoling, but the boys finally managed to lead Windfola from his stall. As the smaller, white horse crossed Hasufel's line of sight, the gray animal shrieked and neighed angrily, stepping madly about the enclosed area. Windfola, though, was silent in response, his stance tall and his head high. He seemed to make a pointed effort to ignore Hasufel's actions, which only served to further irritate him. Faramir made use of Hasufel's distraction, grabbing for the reins and wrapping the leather strips tightly about his fist. He moved quickly, yanking on the bridle and turning Hasufel away from Windfola. As soon as the other horse passed, Hasufel calmed.

Faramir sighed tiredly as he patted Hasufel slowly, shaking his head. "You make a chore of everything," he commented quietly. Then he was still, closing weary eyes and lingering in this sudden peaceful moment. There was not the time for this selfish relaxation, he knew. From the ruckus in the stables and the noise from the streets beyond, it was clear the war party had nearly completed its assembly. In a matter of minutes they would begin their journey. He should have been outside among his men, overseeing the preparations. His fatigued body ignored his whining conscience, though, and he leaned into Hasufel's side. A deep breath was too calming, and his eyelids refused to part again. It was ludicrous to even think such a thing, but he wondered if it all might just wait for him. If the war might just wait…

"Faramir?"

The dozing steward snapped to awareness, stiffening his body and turning around abruptly. He resisted the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes; it was unbecoming of the steward to act so thoughtless when so much was needed of him. He expected one of his men to have come bearing a prospect for his approval or one of the stable boys to have returned to help him with Hasufel's tack.

But it was Imrahil, and the Prince of Dol Amroth looked as worn and beaten as Faramir felt. The steward had heard of his uncle's arrival in Minas Tirith earlier that morning, but separate duties had prevented their meeting until now. Imrahil's eyes were sympathetic as he stepped closer and met his nephew's gaze, and the knowing look disabused him of any shame he might have had over his momentary lapse. Such was Imrahil's way. He was a powerful man, stern if need be, but to those he loved and cherished, he was only loving and accepting.

"I am glad you are back," Faramir said. The sound of his own voice spurned his lethargic body into action, and he reached for Hasufel's recently polished saddle. Numb fingers went about loosening the straps. "Aragorn needs your strength now."

Imrahil did not respond immediately, and an unusual tension came between them. Long had Faramir held a special love for the prince, for Imrahil was now the last living member of his family. In those deep gray eyes, he often found a bit of his mother. Finduilas had been a raven beauty with a gentle heart and pale skin. Imrahil bore remarkable resemblance to his sister, which had been one of the reasons, he supposed, that his father had nearly broken all familial connections with the man. Denethor had been crushed by Finduilas' death, and Imrahil was too blatant a reminder of what he had so prematurely lost. Only recently, in the wake of his father's passing, had Faramir come to realize Imrahil was too valuable a friend to simply brush aside in bitterness.

The quiet moment was painful. What was troubling Imrahil was terribly clear to Faramir as his hands absently went about their mundane tasks. Still, he nearly flinched when his uncle spoke. "I was sorry to hear about Legolas." Faramir's heart pounded in newfound fury as he tightened the buckles securing the saddle in place. Imrahil paused then, as though his own words had hurt too much to follow with some sort of trite condolence. Then he murmured, "Ai, this is a foul war…" The prince sighed wearily, his voice laden with exhausted grief. "Why have we done nothing about it?"

The matter was too complicated and frustrating to explain, so Faramir sufficed it to say, "We knew not where or how to act. Perhaps, if we win in Emyn Arnen, a path will be made clear to us… I cannot tell you what my heart still labors to understand."

Imrahil's voice suddenly grew a harder edge. "But Aragorn has not abandoned hope, has he?"

"No," Faramir responded. He finally finished with Hasufel. The horse seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, for he stilled his fidgeting and walked calmly as Faramir led him from his stall. The steward raised his eyes and looked to Imrahil. "His rage has afforded him little else."

Imrahil patted Hasufel's shining coat mindlessly. "It seems we must win Emyn Arnen, then," he declared with a sigh. The matter-of-fact tone in his voice seemed grossly misplaced, almost humorous. Of course they needed to gain victory. The thought was blatantly obvious. Imrahil's white lips curled into a tiny smile, and though Faramir's mood was decidedly foul, he found he could not help but mirror the gesture.

They spoke then of a few simple matters. Faramir asked of Imrahil's ailing wife and was relieved to learn she was recovering from her bout with sickness. The prince had apparently brought his family to Minas Tirith, leaving only his oldest son to command the defense of Dol Amroth. The White City was better equipped to tend to his spouse's diminished health. Moreover, Dol Amroth was still somewhat extraneous from Minas Tirith. Unlike Emyn Arnen, it was well-defended and less easy to access. However, should it be attacked, Imrahil would not be able to reach his home in time to protect his family or his people. His wife and Lothíriel, his daughter, had come to Minas Tirith, along with those of subjects who wished to evacuate.

After that, Faramir shared with his uncle the events since Emyn Nimsîr. Though many of the happenings had been tense and grievous, he was somehow able to speak of them calmly. The detachment was welcomed. The steward's words were quick and concise, for they had little time to converse and there was much to be said. He spoke of the efforts to fortify the city, of the Southron's massive losses, of the grief and tension that had claimed the once peaceful nation. Eventually he spoke of Holis' intentions to formalize the alliance between Gondor and Harad. The words were hushed as the two men leaned close to each other. The threat of enemy spies still lingered, and this information was far too sensitive and damaging to be allowed to escape to their opponent.

When Faramir finished, Imrahil's eyes were distant in thought. "And the king seems inclined to believe this?" asked the prince. His tone was slightly surprised and even more suspicious.

"I do not know," responded the steward. "I have not had the opportunity to speak with him about it." Faramir narrowed his eyes as they reached the entrance to the stables. Dawn seemed too bright, hurting his head further. It took him a breath to control the ache and regain his train of thought. "I doubt Aragorn will quickly agree to such a prospect. And yet… I worry, my friend. I worry for him. His temper has been dark, and though I admire him for his strength and courage, I fear the lengths to which his rage and grief might drag him."

Imrahil was silent for a moment as his considered his nephew's words. The older man rubbed his chin in thought. "Surely Emperor Holis does not mean to do us harm…" His voice trailed into a tense quiet as he saw the hesitation swirl in Faramir's gray eyes. "They have lost as much, if not more!"

Faramir grew frustrated, his expression taut and his eyes dark. "I cannot make sense of this," he whispered, blinking as though to clear the muddled mess of his thoughts. "It cannot be more than it seems, at least this is what logic dictates. Even so, I cannot convince myself that there is not something greater, something malicious and dark…" Faramir shook his head. "I know not if it is because of them, or if it threatens them as it does us… I know not even if I should act upon these… these ridiculous fears."

"They are not ridiculous," reminded Imrahil gently. "Rarely are you wrong about such things, Faramir. You are right to worry."

The steward sighed and offered the other a weak smile. "Always a whisper, never a scream, and only after it is far too late do I understand the warning," he declared sadly. The familiar shame returned with a biting insistence, leaving him assailed with grief and anger. "I thought… Before Emyn Nimsîr I saw Legolas. He looked so lost, so ill. His face was rent with pallor and pain. His eyes… he was haunted, tortured by something that went beyond any simple sickness. Aragorn had told me that the Elf was ailing, and I had noticed it myself, but I did little to stop him from fighting. I felt this terrible shadow all around him, something so dark that it seemed impossible given how strong and bright he was. It seemed to seep from him on every shallow breath …" He winced with the hurtful memory. Sighing, he clenched his fist about Hasufel's reins until his knuckles were white. "And I did nothing. I trusted that he would seek aid should he need it. I trusted he would not be so blind or willfully ignorant of his own condition. I know not how I could be so foolish."

Imrahil was quiet. Faramir did not know what he expected his friend to say to such a thing. What could he say? It would not change the terrible truth of it. _I let Legolas fall. I had the chance to stop it, to protect him, to save him!_ The feel of Legolas' heated skin tormented his weak, useless fingertips, the sight of those dull blue eyes slipping shut, the weight of the Elf's limp body against his own as they raced from the battlefield… These things would not let him be! _I failed him, and I failed Aragorn. My king hides his wrath, but I see his hatred fill his eyes. I swore to protect Legolas, and I failed! It was my fault!_

"It was not your fault." Faramir broke from his reverie and met Imrahil's gaze. Surprise left him flushed and shaken. Imrahil's hand came to grip his shoulder. "You only did what you thought best," he declared compassionately. "Prince Legolas needed no caretaker."

The thought did little to absolve him, but Faramir nodded all the same, not wishing to distress Imrahil further. He clasped Imrahil's arm, his grip sound and resolute. "Let us put this behind us," he announced, forcing a note of hope into his voice. "You have been briefed as to the plan, yes?"

Imrahil nodded, obviously realizing that the tender subject of a few moments prior was no longer open to discussion. Seriousness claimed his smooth face, and his eyes twinkled in anticipation. "Aye. My son Amrothos will lead half my legion, and I shall command the remainder. I am led to believe Emperor Holis himself with accompany us this morn. Is this so?"

Faramir sighed softly. He had nearly forgotten about _that_ particular bit of information. Éomer had informed him some time earlier that Holis would be participating in this campaign. With the Southrons' support, their force was over five hundred strong. He supposed he should have been glad for it. During Emyn Nimsîr he had commanded a few companies of Haradrim, and they were certainly skilled fighters, gifted with amazing endurance. He had been surprised by their willingness to comply with the orders of those who had once been their hated enemies. Certainly they would continue to aid Gondor in her fight. Still, the thought of Holis riding beside him, of participating, of fighting with him inexplicably riled him. "Yes," he finally responded.

If Imrahil sensed his disconcert, he chose not to address it. "I hope it will be enough," he murmured. "We cannot lose another battle." The words hung on the still air, refusing to fade despite the hum of loud activity beyond the stables. Faramir did not want to consider further failure, further destruction. He could not stand to imagine his people slaughtered by the Easterlings should their campaign be unsuccessful. These pessimistic thoughts plagued him until Imrahil broke from a distant gaze and settled his eyes upon the steward. The prince's hand stroked Hasufel's shining flank a moment as he offered his nephew a small reassuring grin. "Let us be on our way. There is much to be done." His eyes shone with hope, with concern, with courage. Faramir felt relieved at the sight, and he bobbed his head absently. Then Imrahil turned and disappeared into the mess of the crowd.

For a long time he stood still, wondering, listing in a great ocean of doubt, sorrow, and anger, slipping once more into a sleepy trance where his traitorous thoughts would hopefully not reach him. It was peaceful in this void, quiet, and he cherished this moment. Was this the right course of action? Was this the correct thing to do? Could he face another battle, another terror, another drop of innocent blood striking the ground? The night before it had felt good and just to him, but now he wondered. His shoulder began to throb, and his heart ached. How many more wounds could Gondor take before she bled to death?

Hasufel snorted impatiently and butted Faramir with his head. Caught unaware, the steward stumbled forward, barely catching himself in time to avoid an embarrassing spill to the ground. Growling, he ripped around, his eyes flashing in anger. But Hasufel only stared at him with firm eyes, as though admonishing him for even getting angry. Though he tried to hang onto his irritation, he was simply too tired. He sighed and took Hasufel's muzzle in his hands. "You are right, demon-horse," he said softly, fondly stroking the animal's nose.

Then he turned and decided to face the world. Denethor had always told him that worry was for the weak, and he would need all his strength to win this war.

* * *

The eastern skies threatened rain. Dark clouds hung low, as though swollen and pained by a heavy burden, rumbling their distemper lowly across the land. The air smelled of an inclement deluge, and the company wavered and tipped in the wind as though they were but blades of grass. Earlier it had been a gorgeous day, bright and warm with the last kiss of summer. It seemed that such fair weather had only been a frivolous pleasantry of nature. A violent storm would soon sunder the land with all the sadistic glee of a cunning villain gloating in his victory.

Faramir peered from beneath the hood of his cloak. The line of ominous black clouds was encroaching further into the blue sky overhead, like a great army of shadow stampeding across things beautiful and clear. The day had darkened considerably, though sunset was yet hours away. Lightning winked and arced through the thunderheads, bright and violent against grays and lavenders. Pent up rage groaned and grunted, causing the land to shake with the distant fury. Faramir sighed wearily as the wind nearly pushed his hood down. This would certainly complicate matters.

They were nearly halfway to Emyn Arnen, having made relatively good time given the size of their army since departing Minas Tirith early that morning. In their company was what remained of the Riders of Rohan, the fifty men eagerly anticipating the taste of vengeance. Joining them at the head of their forces was the battalion of the Elves of Ithilien. Their tall forms were taut with graceful fury. Faramir had rarely seen Elves so afflicted with emotion, and it bothered him to witness their customary peace utterly destroyed. Then came the bulk of the army. The blue banners of Dol Amroth ripped and screamed in the wind, fighting to free themselves from the poles to which they were fastened, the white swan twisted and tormented. Lines upon lines of troops marched silently, their faces tense and their eyes guarded. Though these men had not yet directly participated in the fighting, they were well aware of the butchery of which these demons were capable. During the campaign to the Black Gate, the forces of Dol Amroth had suffered great casualties at the hands of Mordor, and no man would easily forget the heinous violence of such a terrifying enemy. This, of course, made the sight of the Southrons walking alongside them all that much more peculiar. Yet the great hate that had once festered between these men had been stifled for the good of a common cause. Together, the forces of Harad and Dol Amroth boasted more than five hundred men.

Noticeably absent from this campaign, though, was Gimli. The Dwarf had begrudgingly agreed to remain in Minas Tirith, though it was clear from the fury burning in his eyes that he would have rather preferred to seek his vengeance on the battlefield. It made good sense. With Legolas gone and Éomer, Imrahil, and Faramir away, Aragorn was without aid. Should Minas Tirith be attacked somehow, he alone would command the defense, and that was a daunting prospect. Gimli's skills were better suited within the White City. Furthermore, according to the stout warrior, the company he had summoned from the Glittering Caves would shortly be arriving in Gondor. He would be needed to greet them and assume his command.

Finally, following in the rear was what remained of Faramir's rangers. Once he had had more than two hundred loyal men under his command. Twenty had died at Cair Andros. Another fifty had been either slain or taken captive at Emyn Nimsîr. What remained was hampered by grief and rage. So many of their comrades had been murdered, taken to the nameless, voiceless grave of soldiers killed in battle. Faramir feared how many more might be dragged into that miserable hell before this nightmare ended.

Mablung rode up to him. Éowyn turned her gaze from the malevolent clouds, glancing once to her husband before settling blue eyes upon the ranger fast approaching. "Captain Faramir!" breathed the man, offering his lord a stiff salute. Faramir steered Hasufel closer to Windfola, though the gray beast tensed and made quite a huff about walking alongside his arch nemesis. Mablung pulled his horse along Faramir's other side. "The weather looks foul, sir. Prince Imrahil suggests we commence with distributing the men."

Faramir bit the inside of his cheek in thought. It was a relatively simple plan made complicated by the sheer number of men involved. In days past when Orcs and demons had freely roamed the forests of Minas Morgul, the Rangers had made a common tactic of triangulating and attacking. Small groups of warriors would surround and unsuspecting enemy on three or more fronts, and, with the thick forest as cover, charge, trapping and easily defeating them. The woods of Ithilien were grand, dark, and disorienting. At times the walls of massive oak and pine trunks created more a labyrinth than anything else, and during their many years protecting it, his men had come to learn alarmingly well the secrets of the forest. They had memorized the paths and hiding places, knowing by heart where the trees would obstruct their creeping forms, where the roads would converge upon a single point. Such methods had been indispensable when they had been outnumbered in the past, allowing them to take the enemy by surprise upon ground that offered its advantages to only their side. Escape routes were difficult to find and, even if a retreating force should manage to locate an elusive path, maintaining a steady heading was nearly impossible without knowledge of the land. It was ideal.

It made perfect sense to make use of such a successful strategy. It would be on a much grander scale, and Faramir could only hope that would not negatively impact its effectiveness. After crossing the Anduin, the army would split from the small company of the White Guard delegated to protecting Faramir and turn north. This, however, was only a ruse. Once the legion achieved a distance sufficient to convince any spies that their intentions were indeed directed elsewhere, the men would split into smaller companies. Each would be led by one of the rangers into the dense, dark forest. From thence, the Lord of Emyn Arnen would continue to his home, the groups trailing watchfully, hidden in the woods. The rangers would make use of birdcalls to communicate their movements and locations. Thus, when the time came, they would be ready to attack.

Of course, there was no way of being certain _when_ the Easterlings would advance upon them, or _if_ they would at all. Though both his men and the Elves excelled at tracking, they could unearth no sign of the enemy's presence. Time constrained the forces of Gondor's ambitions, for if their opponents did not make their foolish move while the bait was located within the expansive woods, their plan of attack would fail. They were even spending a night in Emyn Arnen, both to prepare the refugees for the subsequent day's journey and to allot the Easterlings the chance to act. Surely this would work! Faramir could only pray, and pray he did in earnest. Too much time and effort had been invested into this plan for it to fail without even beginning. Too much hope.

"This is as good a place as any, I suppose," declared the ranger. They would be upon the Anduin shortly, and with the weather so ominous, it would be best to form their attack companies before it rained. Faramir sighed and tightened his grip on Hasufel, slowing him to a stop even though the horse wished to drive further on this familiar road. "Send word to Imrahil, Éomer, and Valandil."

"Aye, Captain," Mablung responded, offering his lord yet another salute before kicking his mare into a trot towards the front of the line. Faramir scanned the thickening woods about them. The army was spread long and narrow. It would be difficult to divide the men with such limited space, but the road was not wide enough for much else, and the walls of trees about them were all that hid their actions from distant eyes. They had wanted to maintain the guise of solidarity until they had crossed the river. _Even the best plans are flawed by unpredictability._

The steward dismounted, turning his eyes upon his wife. The wind pushed about Éowyn's form, pulling hair loose from the bindings that secured it, but she was tall and beautiful atop Windfola. Despite the chaos of the moment, she was calm, serene, untouched. As she gracefully lowered herself from her mount, he found himself grateful for her presence. Though the thought of endangering her ached within him like a swollen blister, she was simply too easing for him to wish she was any place but at his side.

He must have been staring at her, for she smiled pleasantly, the tiniest bit of a rosy blush coming to her pale face. She took Hasufel's reins from his hand gently. "Take care of your men, my Lord." The sound of her softly chiding voice broke him from his reverie. He felt his face burn in shame, but she only offered him a knowing smile. Faramir watched her in that moment as though she were made more of sun and magic than flesh and blood. Her equanimity was so powerful that she exuded it like waves of liquid warmth. He wondered how he could still be so boyishly enamored with her even after all this time.

But this was no time to ponder infatuation. Faramir rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as he strolled through the lines of his rangers, sharing firm looks with his trusted men. The white banners of his station flapped in the wind as Beregond and the White Company approached. He met his friend's gaze momentarily as the older man commanded his men to halt. There were about fifty in all, and though they were a loyal and seasoned lot, Faramir found himself worried. The White Company would be the only force protecting him as the rest of the army waited to ambush. He knew not how many soldiers with whom the Easterlings would attack, but he was sufficiently certain that it would be well over fifty men. It was silly to consider this, he knew, for what was the point of acting as bait with guards so numerous as to dissuade the enemy from attacking at all?

Still, he could not calm his nerves. He supposed only confidence so encompassing as to border on arrogance could rid him of these concerns, and that sort of conceit would only lead to mistakes. He cleared his throat softly and steeled himself. "Your men know what to do," he declared in an even voice. He was reminded of the many occasions such as this during the War of the Ring, when before a potentially disastrous battle he faced his rangers and tried to offer them solemn encouragement. Experience guided his words. Though often in the past he had doubted his ability as a warrior and a leader, he had learned during his long years protecting Gondor that he was quite capable when the situation required it of him. "Stay to the north and south as much as possible, and avoid the paths at all cost. I do not need to stress to you the importance of remaining silent." The men nodded. There was little more for him to say. The divisions of the army had been decided before leaving Minas Tirith. He could only hope the rest of the infantry would trust his rangers' directions.

Their faces were stoic and their lips pressed into thin, vehement lines. Their eyes, however, glowed with a dim hope and an unspoken fear for their captain. They would not mention their doubts or dismay, but Faramir felt their concerns as clearly as he did his own. He hoped this would not be their last meeting. When finally the awkward emptiness became too painful, he nodded sternly. "See to your duties."

A chorus of affirmations resounded, and they all found resolution in the simple acts of preparation. Faramir watched as they walked quickly to their designated battalions, slipping on light feet up and down the lines of shuffling and parting troops. He trusted them with his life. He would not doubt their skills now.

The sound of approaching hoof beats attracted his attention before he could address the remaining men of the White Company. The steward pivoted as Imrahil and Éomer approached, their mounts trotting lightly along the edge of the crowded road. Firefoot snorted, tossing his head and chewing at the bit, as the young king of Rohan pulled his powerful steed to a stop before Faramir. Imrahil followed the other's act, dismounting his black charger in a flash of chain mail and blue cloth.

Éomer ran a hand across the top of his head, smoothing his hair back. He looked a bit nervous. It was with good reason, and not simply because their last mission had ended so disastrously. "All is well, Faramir?" he asked.

Faramir nodded. "My men have been dispatched. This is in your hands now."

Imrahil's smooth face scrunched momentarily as he looked at the coming storm. "We should make haste. The weather will slow us, and the longer we linger the greater risk we take of being discovered. You must reach Emyn Arnen by nightfall." The prince shook his head and stepped closer, lowering his tone to hushed words meant for Faramir and Éomer alone. "The Emperor has chosen to remain with your company."

Shock came harshly and quickly to Faramir, rendering him speechless for a moment. But his irritation and curiosity returned to him his wit presently, and he stammered, "Surely you jest. Why would he do such a thing?"

Imrahil's face betrayed little of his displeasure, but Faramir knew his uncle was vexed by the happening. "He believes himself to be better placed as bait. As if you are not incentive enough, he believes the Easterlings will never abandon an opportunity to strike at him."

"Does he not consider it even the _slightest_ bit strange that the Emperor of the Haradrim would participate in the evacuation of Ithilien? It is downright ludicrous, and the Easterlings are not dullards," Éomer questioned. His anger was hardly restrained. "That is too obvious a ruse."

"I know not," Imrahil quietly returned. "I had not the time to question him, and I doubt he would have answered me even if I had."

Faramir did not know whether to be insulted or simply annoyed that Holis had chosen so late in the preparations to make such a vital decision. Imrahil had obviously considered this as well, for confusion and indignant hesitation swirled in his dark eyes. "We are not of the station to deny him his wish." This was the simple fact of it, and regardless of their misgivings, they could not change it.

Faramir released a slow breath. For a moment he pondered the matter, but he rapidly concluded that Imrahil was right: there was naught he could do but accept the fact of it. He could not very well _order_ Holis to join his own men in the ambush. Furthermore, since he could not substantiate any of his suspicions, his protests would only be groundless accusations. "Then he may ride with us. You will inform him that I cannot guarantee his protection any more than I can guarantee my own."

Éomer's eyes glinted with hard anger. Imrahil nodded. "Of course," he stated.

The three lords were silent then, though Faramir had a strong suspicion that the same thoughts plagued them all. The army was splitting, and their plan was beginning to take shape. Once they crossed the bridge over the Anduin, there would be no turning back. The army would peel away, group by group, until all that remained was the White Company. Communication between Faramir's band and the ambush parties would be severed. The window of opportunity would thus be opened, and it would stay dangerously so for the night as the company stayed in the nearly vacant manor at Emyn Arnen. With the remainder of the refugees accompanying them, they would set out the following morning, holding only the hope that the ambush parties were still protecting them. Upon breaching the eastern shore of the Great River, chance would dictate the fate of all.

The wind roared in the trees, screaming and howling its fury, but Faramir still could not understand the black foreboding within him. It was only a whisper, racing on the cold, vicious wind, and for all his want he could not hear clearly what it was trying to tell him. He refused to entertain the thought of failure, of a dark future, as though simply paying the possibility attention might increase the odds of its occurrence. It was clear from the uncomfortable, torn looks on the faces of his friends that they too were burdened by this palpable fear. It suddenly seemed possible to simply turn around and leave this foolish plan, to race back to Minas Tirith and forget that they had ever envisioned this battle. This phantom future of thunder and destruction could be so easily avoided.

But they had to remain steadfast. Each knew it. Imrahil spoke it. "When we meet again," he said firmly, grasping Faramir's shoulder, "it will be in victory." He offered his nephew a reassuring smile, and that simple gesture was somehow enough to crush the doubts and leave him adamant in their purpose.

He nodded his agreement, and then Imrahil was again upon his horse. They shared a final look of hope and understanding. It was not proper for men of their stature to display familial affection before their subordinates, but such acts were hardly needed, for each knew from the other's gaze the very depths of their loyalty and friendship.

As Imrahil's horse disappeared in the troops, Faramir turned to Éomer. The young of king of Rohan had moved closer to his sister. Éomer leaned close to her and spoke in a hushed tone, his back to Faramir. The steward watched, oblivious to the rush of men about him, as the emotions flickered in Éowyn's bright blue eyes. There was love and then grief. Éomer's hand came to rest on Éowyn's cheek, and she closed those vibrant orbs. A look of pain flashed across her face briefly, and her hand lay over her brother's. The urge to comfort her was strong, but Faramir held his ground. He respected the bond his wife held with her brother, and he would not interrupt.

Éomer was silent then, and Éowyn opened her eyes. Now her gaze sought her husband's, and Faramir knew their private moment had passed. He approached them, and Éomer turned slightly. Few words were shared. To say anything of the tense fear between them made realization of that fear all that much more possible. "We are with you, Faramir. Let this be the last time we defend our nations in this war." Éomer laid a firm hand upon his friend's shoulder. They were reluctant to part, finding strength in each other's resolution, hiding weakness and doubt for the sake of the other's faith.

"It will be," Faramir finally said, grasping the other's outstretched arm. The words tasted sour, but he did not regret saying them as Éomer's youthful eyes glimmered in a renewed hope.

The king's fingers tightened firmly about his shoulder. He shared a final look with Éowyn before mounting Firefoot once more. The horse snorted, holding his head high and standing proudly. "Now they will know our vengeance," declared Éomer quietly, his eyes focused upon the black clouds ahead. "Until then, my brother." With that, he was off in a gallop, racing to the front lines where the army was reforming.

Faramir remained still. Thunder boomed in the distance, and his heart vibrated with the power of the clap. The wind smelled of rain. His mind was muddled with too many thoughts. Most prevalent, though, was the final sentiment, that last promise, he had shared with Éomer. Though Éomer was by no means inexperienced or naïve, there was a certain innocence about him at times that demanded protection. _Is that why I spouted such a groundless belief? Such a useless assurance? Such an empty–_

"You did not lie, my Lord." Éowyn's voice drew him from his bitter thoughts. He turned to face his wife. Her eyes were gentle and truthful. Again the gales violently tore past her, but she was still and powerful. The army was moving, and the world was shifting. Her hand took his, her slender fingers squeezing tenderly. "Hope can never be false."

Lightning flashed brilliantly, and the sky cracked. Down came the teeming rain, sundering the land with a wet fury. But it did not dampen his faith, for she was steadfast. And if she believed, then it could only be true.


	20. Never a Scream

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER TWENTY: NEVER A SCREAM**

Evening was well upon them, and the frightful storm offered no hope of repose. The rain came down hard and fast, showering them in a vicious deluge. Though the fury of thunder and lightning had abated, the rain continued madly in their stead. In the wake of the violent wind, the air had become cold and heavy, making the trip most arduous and unpleasant. Faramir was not prone to such visible acts of weakness as shivering or allowing his teeth to chatter. Many years of traversing the wilderness, of sleeping unprotected in terrible heat, in choking cold, and in biting wind and rain, had trained his mind and body to simply weather foul conditions. However, it had been more than two years since he had last had to do such a thing, and he had grown soft in the warmth of manors and beds.

He wiped the water dripping from his nose with a wet hand. The teeming rain had turned his cloths into a soggy weight that was too heavy upon his cold body, and the simple act of remaining upright was becoming an annoyance. The trees bent, their painted leaves bleeding fat drops of water that struck with surprising power. The company was tired, trudging silently and heavily along the well-trodden path to Emyn Arnen. The men were quiet with worries and fears, their unspoken tensions hanging on the air like the chill that clung to them. No one had the courage to speak of his distress. Truly, they were seasoned and experienced, and they had faced far more dangerous and dire situations before. Perhaps the moan of shaking leaves too closely resembled the soft wail of dying dreams, of fading peace. Perhaps the soft patter of the rain too clearly marked the beating of miserable hearts that had once hoped to never again face war. Perhaps the world cried for them, a thousand cold tears like lost moments dripping sorrowfully upon them. Perhaps it lamented their passing into a future that would leave them yearning earnestly for the past.

_Your mind escapes you._ Faramir opened eyes that had inadvertently slipped shut, shaking his head against his own ideas. _Such melodrama! If only Boromir could hear these silly musings. If only Father could!_

Still, whatever their worth, these depressing thoughts irked him, and he found himself hating his sodden state. Whatever the future promised, whatever disaster awaited them at Emyn Arnen, it was surely better than drowning in this confounded flood!

Hasufel snorted and tugged at the reins. The melancholic rain had served to dampen even the fiery horse's spirit. Beads of water slipped down his shimmering gray coat, shining in the fading daylight like specks of diamonds. The horse lifted his head, his ears twitching, and a slight spring began to return to his step. Éowyn spoke quietly with Beregond quite some distance before him, and he could just barely hear the hint of her relieved laughter. Ahead the men began to pick up their pace as well. The trees about them were familiar, the terrain well traveled and welcoming. They were nearly at Emyn Arnen.

The steward could not keep a relieved smile from his lips. A grateful sigh slipped from him. He thought fondly of his manor. They had put many weeks into its construction, and though it was not so grand as Minas Tirith was or as Minas Ithil had once been, it had, in the last months, become real to him. It was homey and cozy, despite its quaintness. During the hot summer nights it had been pleasantly cool, reducing the intolerable humidity into an enjoyable clime ideal for lazing and sleeping. It promised as well to be warm during the chilly winter days, for the blocks with which his manor had been constructed were good and firm against snow and ice. Gimli had often boasted during its completion that stone crafted by Dwarves was especially fine material, and never would it relent to the pounding of the elements. A house made of such substance was truly a home.

"There is nothing so wonderful, I suppose."

Faramir jerked at the unexpected voice and ripped about in his saddle. Surprise jolted through him when he saw Holis' calm face appraising him. The emperor had brought his black stallion alongside Hasufel during the steward's distracted moment. The color drained from Faramir's face, and his eyes narrowed inadvertently. Immediately shock faded into suspicion, and in the awkward moment that inevitably followed, he found himself wondering at the man's intentions. For hours had they traveled, and until now, the daunting figure had said nothing. What did he want?

Holis' thin lips pulled into a weak, apologetic smile. "I did not mean to startle you, my lord."

The other's words seem genuine, and the accusation faded from Faramir's eyes. His fingers had instinctively strayed to the hilt of his blade, and only now did he become conscious of the act. Slowly he returned his hand to Hasufel's reins.

"You are tense. Are these lands not your own?" Holis asked.

Surely the man could not be so naïve, so oblivious! "I have seen these forests turn allies upon one another in the confusion of battle. I have felt the wind tear sense from men and turn calm and logic into irrational terror. I have smelled death among the scents of earth and leaves. I have heard these trees weep at the bloodshed. I have known fear in this place, my own fear, the fear of my men, and the fear of my enemies." His words were stoic and even, and they were not without a slight edge. "This forest is not a thing to be taken lightly. You know as well as I that great evil once resided within these woods. I doubt this place will ever be rid of its gloom."

Holis' eyes glazed with something Faramir did not quite understand. The man spoke softly, and though the words were probably not meant to elicit such wrath and anger within him, he felt these things all the same. "Even the light of the Elves could not lift it." Holis sighed, glancing sadly about, as if lamenting possibilities swept away in the scouring rain. "And now it never might."

Faramir did not respond. The crazy storm of his emotions would not calm and allow him to think clearly. His mind raced with the implications of those words. What did Holis mean by them? Could the emperor be so callous and cruel? The grief raged within him, and an incredible urge to simply _act_, to yell or fight or abandon the other's company, tickled his tense muscles and bones. Yet decorum permitted none of this, and he merely grinded his teeth.

Still, Holis did not seem to notice the effect he had had on Faramir. The man sighed and lowered his head. The rain had soaked through his hood to mat his black hair. His cheeks glistened wetly. "I never had the chance to express my… condolences over Prince Legolas." The man sighed, as though greatly troubled. "It is a grievous loss for your nation."

Inexplicably, the heat of his anger abandoned him. Faramir turned cool eyes to Holis, wondering at him, frustrated that he was so inept at reading his mood. Was he truly so temperamental, or was he just extremely experienced in masking his true ambitions under false and cleverly crafted attitudes? Unable to discern the truth of it, Faramir decided to simply oblige the other in this conversation. "As Ulpheth was to yours," he responded politely.

"Yes, well, I have not given up hope," commented Holis. A defensive note had come to his words, and Faramir wondered at this as well. Was the emperor now criticizing Aragorn for his recent despondency? Did he think that he was so much stronger, so stoic, so unfettered by guilt and doubt and sorrow? How dare this man presume to judge them? How dare this man think to compare their losses? What did he hope to gain? The steward was so engrossed in these dark, cross thoughts that he hardly registered Holis' next statements. "War is too black a demon to trust, and even the most viable of victories can quickly become the most devastating of defeats. Long have the Haradrim come to accept this truth, and no longer do we seek to assess guilt or distribute blame. I only wish that this war permits me to realize my ambitions, and all else is a matter of destiny."

"And what are your ambitions, my Lord?" asked Faramir.

Holis smiled ruefully. "Domination. Control. Peace." A surprised look must have broken free from Faramir's control and taken his face, for the other man gave a bit of a condescending chuckle. "You are counted as one of the wisest men alive, son of Denethor. Surely you do not think me so pure as to want only the end this bloodshed?"

Once more, this man dealt in thinly veiled insults. Deep within Faramir bristled. He decided to deliver a challenge of his own. "Nay, but, as you have admitted, I am no dullard. Surely _you_ do not think me so naïve as to believe your pretty talk of peace and unity?"

Holis laughed again. The rain upon his olive skin set his face aglow almost surreally. Though his gaze was solid, there was a glint of something that could only be anticipation. Hunger, perhaps. "Fine. Let us bandy words, then, and we shall see who is the victor. You, my dear Faramir, gaze upon me and wonder at my nature, at my past, and certainly at my true intentions. I appear upon the doorstep of your proud nation at what appears to be a most opportune instant, and you cannot help but ponder the convenience of this. You considered the lack of your country's intelligence concerning mine, and you doubt indeed that the truth lies completely before your searching eyes. I speak of grand things, of policies and hopes that contradict all you and yours have come to know of my people. We are savages, marauders, violent men that act only to further our own evil interests." These things hurt Faramir for their truthfulness. Of course he had considered Gondor's past experience with Harad as a basis for their present dealings. It was only logical to do so. Yet he remained silent, unwilling to gift the other with a hint of his thoughts. "We were servants to the Dark Lord, after all. What can we offer a nation of virtuous men? What can a world of shadow offer a world of light? And you would be right to doubt. Were I in your position, I know I would do the same."

Faramir's eyes narrowed. He could not see Holis' point in all of this; his words were slippery and circular. "Speak clearly," demanded the ranger, "or speak not at all of this."

"You disappoint me, Faramir," Holis said. Though hidden in soft and unthreatening tones, the comment was scathing. "I was led to believe you were a man of great poise and patience. Surely you will indulge me." Faramir seethed silently, turning fiery eyes from his companion and instead looking blankly ahead. All his attention, though, was centered upon Holis. The man said, almost gleefully, "Let us make more interesting this game of ours, shall we? After all, understanding is but the first step of trust. Value can only be measured by risk." The man smiled as Faramir again looked to him. Despite his growing distrust and distaste, the steward found himself interested. "This is what I propose. I will allow you to ask me one question, and I will answer truthfully, provided that you afford me the same honor. In the interests of diplomacy, I shall permit you to go first."

The rain splattered loudly around them as Faramir stared hesitantly. What sort of game was this? His mind raced frantically, twisting the offer, searching it for signs of malice or ill will. Holis' face was calm, annoyingly patient and void of emotion. The choice perturbed Faramir greatly. So little was known of this man and his people. Years of fruitless reconnaissance would not be able to compare to the opportunity before him. Whatever he could learn now would benefit Gondor greatly and potentially cast aside decades of doubt and rumor. Given the apprehension the nation brandished towards the Haradrim, such knowledge could direct Gondor in these next important actions. Yet, despite the undeniable allure of Holis' suggestion, he could not trust it. Why this charade? Holis was no fool; surely he knew Gondor greatly craved information. Was this some test, some ploy to trick Faramir into revealing sensitive secrets? If the man was as loyal and trustworthy as he claimed, why not simply offer this valuable knowledge without demanding compensation? _He is baiting me. He wishes to see if I will gamble with him. He wants me to engage him in this farce. But why?_

After spending a quick moment in thought, Faramir could arrive at no conclusion. He doubted there was a simple explanation for the other's actions at all. Certainly Holis was a brilliant politician and a glib speaker. Yet somehow this proposal of his seemed more personal, more… selfish. Somehow, Faramir knew this had less to do with Gondor and more to do with _him._

_And what if he lies? I understand little of this man, and what I do know suggests he is cunning and treacherous. He will con me of things he should not know! There is no cause to believe he will not!_ Regardless of his screaming cautions, he spoke. Reason dictated he could not let this good opportunity pass, and his mixed feelings towards Holis did little but addle his logic. The man was right about one thing: the giving begot gaining. Even with all his doubts and suspicions, he could not deny the want of his pride and curiosity. He would play this game. Coolly he asked, "Who are you?"

To that, Holis at first said nothing. Then a sly, almost seductive smile came to his bloodless lips. "That was not the question I expected of you," he admitted, arching one eyebrow.

The look chilled Faramir. He said nothing to the comment, though, his face impassive and his eyes hard. He would not play into the other's taunts. The smile slid from Holis' handsome face, and a look of frustrated desire winked in his eyes. For a moment it was there, and Faramir felt his heart thud madly in sudden revulsion and fear.

That was the same hungry look he had worn when he had touched Legolas' hand.

"You may not believe this, Lord Faramir, but you and I have been acquainted in the past." The emperor turned to gaze ahead. His voice was even and confident. "Would it grieve you to know the truth of our shared history? It is a long story to tell. I think the men of Gondor quite short-sighted, at times. To you, the forces of Mordor were but a bulbous mesh of homogenous evil that had to be destroyed. Shadow was shadow without question. Yet you failed to realize that a whole world existed beneath the Dark Lord. War is not so black and white. We fought to preserve our society as much as we fought to destroy yours." The man laughed. Clearly he had somehow amused himself. "Even now, you refuse to see."

Dark eyes deep and empty turned to him. They were utterly piercing. "Do you remember, my Lord, a day more than two years ago? Your men had fortified a falling line of defense. It was a pitiful city, just west of Mordor… Osgiliath, I believe its name was." Faramir stiffened. His heart stopped, and his breath hitched in his throat. Somehow he knew what was to come, though he could not bear the thought of it. "It was a veritable slaughter, for your soldiers were truly less than adequate, and we greatly outnumbered your meager forces. Our intelligence had indicated that you would not allow this city to fall, and though I had my doubts, you did not disappoint. Surely you remember, my good sir? I believe you fell that day." A flash of pain. Blood. Screaming. The ground hard and unforgiving beneath him, slamming into his falling, heavy body like a battering ram did a feeble door. _No._ "How easily an arrow leaves one's fingers… A trance comes upon mind and body, and together they act in complete harmony. A target is no longer a simple object, but a pulsing, breathing, bleeding thing. How easily life can flee you as you hold a wound, feeling your own blood drip from your body, taking with it your heat, your strength, your very spirit. A lucky shot was all it was."

_Was it you?_ Faramir never spoke the words, so heavy was his shock. He remembered little of that day, save that he had been among the last to flee the fallen city. The arrow had come from seemingly nowhere, striking him violently and sending him to the ground in a haze of agony and despair. Nightmare and reality had run together like a flood upon a field, and he had struggled on in a pained daze. He had nearly died. _How could you have known, unless you had ordered it? Unless you had…_

Holis was speaking. Faramir barely registered the words. "Would it frighten you to know the truth? I was no simple man, my Lord Faramir. Neither of us was. Simple men do not rise to our station. I was no freedom fighter. I was no simple soldier or mindless servant of the dark. I was a Lieutenant of Sauron."

Nothing. Silence. Faramir's mind stopped for a moment, stunned in a paralyzed and abrupt halt, and the world drew tight about him. He could make no sense of the implications that instant, save that the man who rode companionably beside him had once been one of his worst enemies. Everything fell away, leaving him reeling in alarm and sudden nausea. He knew he was staring blankly at the man beside him, but he could not help himself, so heavy was the impact of those few scant words.

He released a breath he had been holding softly and forced his mind to focus. The remnants of his thoughts came together, and a chiding voice rang between his ears. _This should make no difference! This should not!_ But it did. For many years had the free peoples of Middle Earth known of the existence of the Dark Lord's Lieutenants. They were a scant few, and they were to be feared, for it was they who had ordered the destruction of homes and the butchery of innocents. It was they who had reached forth Sauron's venomous fingers and raked the earth. _How many has he killed? Long did we fight the Haradrim. Many died at Osgiliath, at the siege of Gondor, during the march to the Black Gate! How many did he murder?_

The rage swirled and churned within him, bubbling with heated disgust, and he bit his tongue until the coppery taste of blood assailed him. _My friends… my father… my brother!_ But he did not speak. The anger gripped him, pushing at limp fingers, pounding upon a still body to act. But he could not! Holis gave a rueful grin. "Your eyes betray your hate to me, Lord. I do not fault you for such a thing. But I will not apologize and attempt to amend a past over which I am not ashamed." Faramir's racing heart shuddered in revulsion, and his limp fingers suddenly balled into fists about Hasufel's reins. "One does not fight a war believing his ambitions false or faulty. One does not serve another's dreams while doubting his own. I did what I did for the sake of myself. I make no excuses, for none are warranted. I served my own will then, and I will continue to do so."

"And what is your will?"

"Ah, my dear Faramir, one question. Regardless, my reasons for this war are the same now as they were when you asked but a few minutes ago."

Faramir seethed, shame inexplicably blooming within him. He did not want to appear the imbecile before this man. Desperately he clawed through his emotions to reach some semblance of calm so that he might think. And then he understood. "You desire power. Power to control others as you see fit. Power to make the world appear right to your eyes. Power to dominate your own destiny."

Holis' eyes flashed brightly. He was thrilled by simply hearing the words. "Indeed," he responded in a cold, even voice, "and you are the same. Simple men cannot grasp the intricacies of life. They see a world of inevitabilities, of toleration, of submission. They see limitations, and thus they limit themselves, fettering ambitions that might have garnered them their dreams. Wealth, notoriety, women, glory… It is because of the simple man's restraint that such things are coveted! Does fate tie one to a well-trodden and otherwise dull and ordinary path? Simple men stand still and accept a world that beats and blemishes them!" The words slithered about Faramir's spirit like a snake, squeezing ever so slightly as they entrapped him as if to test the strength of his defiance. "I am extraordinary. I will not stand still and allow a terrible world to take my hand and lead me down a path I despise. Nay, I am worth more than that. I am captain of my soul. I am captain of the souls of others."

Faramir could hardly believe what he was hearing. The very substance of Holis' declaration was ludicrous. Nobody had that sort of power! Those that did were dictators and tyrants. But it was the way he spoke of these things that truly disturbed Faramir. Such confidence and conceit graced his pleasant voice. He spoke as though he were explaining a given fact of life or a completely rational basis for an argument. He spoke as though he truly believed what he was saying. "That is why I became Sauron's officer. The opportunity was there, and I took it. In our culture, we do not dawdle or beleaguer each other when the time comes to rise. I rose, and I am thankful for it. It is all a challenge, you see. A marvelous challenge. Even the most fundamental truths of life I can change. To reshape the world as I see fit… That is the very essence of my dream. Not to simply dominate, but to change and embrace."

"That is madness."

Holis offered him an amused glance. "Is it, Lord Faramir? Come now. Consider more carefully what I propose. Is it truly so different that what any leader does? He issues commands, he controls the minds and bodies of his people, he remakes order and shapes the lives of those around him. He bends their wills to his wishes. You are not so different from me, and neither is your king. We are all the same. We mold the world as we see fit."

"Yes, but we do not do it by slaughtering innocents and forcing war where there was once peace! We do not spread evil! We do not use terror and trauma to change the nature of the world, no matter how much the world displeases us!"

"A choice."

"Nay, a duty."

"You blind yourself with righteousness and delude yourself with false integrity. Who parses good from evil? Who divides light from shadow? Who defines morality in an immoral world? _You do._ What gives _you_ that power? _You do._ You live by a set of rules that you have defined. You labeled your cause as just and mine as heinous. This is a crutch you have invented, a blinding rationale to protect your eyes from the truth of it. Power is power. You make what you will of it. Do you dream, Lord Faramir? To dream, perhaps, is the greatest power of all. Fantasy bleeds into reality, and everything is possible."

Faramir looked away. He was riddled with disgust, but with more than revulsion did his heart shake within him. He did not want to consider the validity of what Holis said, but a whining, nagging voice bid that he listen, that he not close his mind so easily. No matter how much he disliked the notion, he knew that on some level the other man was right. It was no small comfort to be in control. It was more than just the selfish assurance that things proceeded in an agreeable manner. It was confidence. It was peace and stability.

And perhaps there was some truth in Holis' disconcerting words. So much effort had been put into rebuilding Middle Earth. A proverbial utopia of peace and harmony had risen from the ashes of war. For many weeks had they basked in the glory of what they had won, nurturing the tranquility and savoring the fruits of their suffering. As much as he hated thinking ill of what they had done, he could not help but wonder at how they had secured this amity. Yes, they had fought on behalf of all Middle Earth. Yes, they had protected the innocents and destroyed an undeniably black terror. Yes, they had saved the world. But what gave any of them the right to now build in the wake of such horrific destruction? What gave them the power to shape this era as they pleased? Who had blessed them with such a responsibility? Bloodlines and legacies and destinies? Did those things define man from man and heart from heart? Who had given them their power? It made him feel ill and dirty to simply consider it.

_We did._

"And now, Master Faramir, I believe it is my turn to make my inquiry of you. It is but a simple question, and I require no lengthy answer." The sound of Holis' voice tore him from his dark thoughts. The emperor's eyes were narrowed and empty. In a flash he was again terribly aloof and calm, almost as though he had never so intimately spoken of his heart. Faramir nearly jerked; he had completely forgotten of this silly bargain. He managed to regain his faltering composure, trying a deep breath and moistening his dry mouth. Holis gazed upon him without blinking, and the strangeness of his black eyes convinced Faramir briefly that he was staring into a fathomless void that could hold naught but cold desire. It was an abyss never filled with joy and completion, endlessly hungry.

Holis watched him, and for his own part, he returned the stoic glare. Silence came then, a chilly, awkward one littered with doubt and distrust. Holis seemed to pause in apprehension, as if thinking, as if nervous to reveal his interest. Eventually he spoke, and his tone was now soft and unimposing. "Is your king truly considering our treaty?"

The rain fell hard and strong upon him, and for the moment he felt as though he had been washed away in a furious current of misery. He was drowning in his own foolishness. He should never have agreed to this rubbish! Forcing an iota of calm to claim his riled mind, he tried to reason. He tried to discover why Holis thought such information would be important, especially after making it abundantly clear that he cared for little beyond his own ambitions. He tried so hard to find a logical solution to the dilemma into which he had stupidly worked himself. The question was so unbelievably simple and seemingly innocent, but he could not answer it! He could not! To Holis it would give an advantage in negotiation and planning. It would forfeit Gondor's protection and secrecy. It would betray Aragorn's trust. _I must lie!_

Yet he could not. He had given his word to speak truthfully. He had vowed to participate in this cursed travesty. His pride would allow him to do nothing less than uphold his end of this bargain. "Yes," he said.

Emptiness took his breath then, leaving him tense and silent. Faramir felt every muscle in his body tense in a painful torture. Sweat collected upon his temples, tickling wet locks of hair. He wished vehemently to take back promises sworn in a moment of arrogance. His curiosity had bested him! What a fool he was! _I am no Steward. How I have played into his very hands!_

However, belying his fears, Holis only smiled sincerely. "Good. I had hoped he would."

Somehow that simple, soft admission eased Faramir greatly. The pounding of his shame reduced quickly to a muted throb, and his taut body relaxed enough so that he could breathe normally. Slowly the painful thudding of his heart slowed to a level that did not deafen him. They rode in a strange quiet, the echo of what had been spoken drowning out the patter of the rain with strange remembrance and unrelieved conflict. The ghost of a bloody past lingered, threatening sadistically an even bloodier future.

Holis finally spoke again. "Some men are able to reform their thoughts, my Lord. Some men never change." He seemed equally distressed, and once more did Faramir ponder the man's true nature. Had this all been an act? Anger pricked him but not enough to tear his attention away from his fearful and frustrated confusion. _An act? No, not an act._

_A test._

"Your Lady is calling you."

He looked up, his eyes focusing. Indeed, Éowyn had turned about in Windfola's saddle, raising her hand to summon him. Ahead Beregond was directing his men to slow. They were nearly at Emyn Arnen. Irritation coiled in Faramir's belly; for all that, he was no more certain of Holis than he had been before! Faramir swallowed his contempt and anger. He had embarrassed himself enough this day. "Good day, my Lord." He did not wait for Holis' response, for he could no longer bear to be in the other's impressive presence. His skin was veritably crawling. He felt violated. He felt used.

Hasufel knew his master's wish as he quickly and gracefully leapt into a fast trot without instruction. Faramir shuddered. He could not help it this time. The sight of man's soulless, famished eyes devouring him would not leave his worried mind. _A Lieutenant of Sauron._

_Some men never change._

As he reached his wife's side, he could not help but wonder with what sort of demon they were dealing.

* * *

Emyn Arnen was waiting.

The manor was tensely dark and silent. Shadows swept over the rooms and corridors, covering cloth, stone, and wood in a curtain of heavy midnight. The air hardly moved. This place, once so lively with activity and hope, was deathly quiet. The ghosts of cheerful servants and bustling residents haunted the halls with a mournful warning, caressing to life fear and anxiety. Hope had turned to horror, grotesque and terrible. The quiet was laden with doubt and apprehension. Night had come, and the Easterlings still had not attacked.

Faramir sighed and tried to relax. Every muscle of his fatigued body was taut, itching with unspent energy, jittery with unwanted suspense. The utter quiet was disturbing, for in the void the pounding of his heart and swelling of his breathing was far too amplified. The steward closed his eyes and licked dry lips, forcing himself to relax. Perhaps the soft mattress beneath him would aid in his effort to slip away from the troubles of the world. But he could not sleep. He would not.

Éowyn laid in his arms, her head against his chest. Though her breathing was slow and regular, he knew she did not slumber. Every so often thunder would grumble and groan in the distance, and she would tense or shift slightly, as if in apprehension of some further disruption to the heavy pall of silence. She felt the same as he when it came to this matter. The attack might come at any moment. There would be no peace with such a threat. Even if tranquility could take them enough to ease them into rest, it would be a selfish and false act. They were the Lord and Lady of this place. They could not slumber idly when such a black shadow endangered them.

Arriving at Emyn Arnen had been both terribly relieving and distressing. Faramir did not appreciate the image of his once growing and flourishing home empty and dismal with the peril of war. Where once more than five hundred soldiers, tradesmen, and hunters made their home in the dense woods, now barely more than fifty remained. Those that had stayed had been fraught with unrest and their lord's sudden arrival had frightened them. Gathering those few refugees in his great courtyard, the steward had briefly explained the nature of the situation to them. Not wishing to discourage or distress them further, he had only spoken of a general threat of attack, offering protection as a reason for his appearance. Simply he was to escort his people safely to Minas Tirith. The lie was bold and hurtful to him, but his subjects were none the wiser to his deceit. It was better to have them focused and confident as opposed to haggard and paranoid.

The rest of the evening had been spent in preparation. Once his manor had been stocked fully with food, supplies, and weapons. Now the grand storerooms were barren, for anything useful or valuable had already been removed and transported to Minas Tirith. If the manor was taken, such goods should not benefit the enemy. Whatever remained had been collected for the journey back to the White City, and what they could not carry, they had burned. The White Company, as weary as it was, would stand watch this night and protect the manor. It had been constructed so that the steward's home and the town proper was completely surrounded by a protective wall. This barrier was not so high or grand as what guarded Minas Tirith, and it was weak in some areas as construction on the structure had not yet been completed. Hopefully it would be enough to at least slow the Easterlings' charge and provide the ambush companies time enough to act.

Dinner had been meagerly consumed. The arduous day of riding and worrying left most without an appetite. Faramir had offered quarters to Holis, and though he feared the strange man might find the sparse accommodations less than appealing, the emperor had only thanked him and bid him a good night. Holis was, perhaps, the only soul in Emyn Arnen that evening that seemed perfectly calm, and even now Faramir found that poise unnerving. His thoughts ran rampant and unrestrained, the perturbing exchange from earlier serving to fuel his wild suspicions. He began to wonder again why the emperor had chosen to remain with his party. Was there some greater evil at work? _Are we again walking blindly into a trap?_

He shook his head against the pillows as if to banish the thought. Senseless misgiving would do naught but rile whatever of his calm still graced him, and that distraction was an impediment he could not afford. Still, it was difficult to put aside the memories of that afternoon's queer conversation. Even now, he could not discern what Holis had hoped to gain from it. The man had revealed curiously more than Faramir's simple question had required, and in return, the emperor had apparently been satisfied with a minimal answer to his own inquiry. The hungry delight in Holis' eyes plagued him with crawling flesh and paranoid thoughts. The emperor had manipulated Faramir to some end, to some personal pleasure, and that left the ranger distraught with guilt and confusion. He was becoming certain that Holis' question was without import, and Faramir's answer had been even less so. It had been about the game, not about the information. Faramir prided himself on his foresight and his ability to read and anticipate others. Holis, though, was a dangerous conundrum, and the more Faramir learned of this would-be emperor, the more he came to realize that the man was far more than he appeared to be.

He had not told Éowyn of Holis' identity or of what he had done. He did not wish to upset her with the cruel fact of it, and he was not certain at this point that _any_ of it was true. _Nay, I do not doubt its truth. I doubt its purpose. He meant for me to make something of what he told me, but I know not what! What am I supposed to see? What am I supposed to think, to do? Where is he leading us?_ He had wanted Éowyn's comfort and advice on the matter, for he still felt dirty for she, like he, had a quick, agile mind that often saw intricacies others missed. But he had not been able to force the treacherous words from his mouth. He did not want to admit his folly until he was sure what the consequences of it would be. He needed more time to think upon it.

But time was one commodity he was sure they would shortly not have. Though the minutes were long and agonizing now, the unknown future was creeping ever closer. Eventually the moment would come when Aragorn would make his choice. Should a treaty be signed, it would bind these two once warring nations together by word and vow. The thought displeased him. Normally he craved peace, but he was positive that peace would not be the result of this alliance. Again, he was without evidence. Again, he hated his inability to grasp the entirety of the situation. Perhaps these ill feelings he harbored were simply the weapon of a grieving mind seeking to lay blame for wrongs done to him. Perhaps Holis was simply a temperamental man who craved the very things he said he did: domination, control, and peace. _Peace through control. We do the same, really. He is right. Who am I to fault him for having the gall and arrogance to be proud of it?_

_A Lieutenant of Sauron,_ another thought countered. _He is malicious! He has served evil willingly! Regardless of his motives now, his ambitions drove him to brutality before! Do not forget Osgiliath! Do not forget what was nearly taken from you!_ Absently his fingers reached up to run along the freshly scarring skin of his shoulder. It had not occurred to him before, but the arrow that had struck him at Cair Andros had done so in the same spot he had been wounded years ago. _A lucky shot. You do not strike me as a man who relies on fortune's bounty, Holis. You do nothing by chance, say nothing thoughtlessly. That was no lucky shot._

_Some men never change._

He opened eyes that had slipped shut. These pointless, meandering thoughts were doing nothing but furthering his misery. He needed to be free of this striking malaise. He was not usually an impatient man, but he found his idle mind and body this evening to be an absolute punishment. Perhaps a bit of fresh air and some movement would ease him. The thought grew more agreeable by the moment until he finally decided to act upon it. He would not rest either way, so he might as well occupy his wandering mind with matters that would not drive him insane with doubt and confusion.

The pace of his heart must have quickened with the mere contemplation of action, for Éowyn stirred and turned inquisitive eyes to him. "Faramir?" Gently he untangled himself from her, sliding from beneath her slender form. "Where are you going?"

"Just to check the gate," he whispered. His fingers swept down her cheek faintly. A bit of a smile came to his face despite the gravity of the situation. Distant thunder rumbled drowsily. "Sleep."

Her expression was one of stern defiance, but she made no move to follow him nor did she question his decision. Faramir turned, grabbing his sword belt from the desk chair and strapping it to his waist. He had not bothered to undress and merely straightened his tunic with a sharp tug. A moment after that he stuffed his feet into his boots and headed outside.

Having Emyn Arnen so utterly vacant was riling to say the least. Ever since they had decided to reconstruct Ithilien, the new manor had been noisy with all the rushed chores such a massive project required. The manor was whispering its melancholy, the stones lonely for the vibrant life that had once made a home within it. The blackened corridors were cold and stark. It seemed that with the fleeing of the citizens, all energy had quit the building, turning it again from home to a mere collection of rock and wood.

The fall of Faramir's light feet was incredibly loud, reverberating in the long corridors and staircases. He quickly made his way into the courtyard area, seeing the torches of the guards flicker in the breeze as he emerged from the grand foyer. The trees rustled with the wind and rain. The drizzle was very fine, almost a stinging, cold mist that clung to the body in a sheen. Faramir regretted not having grabbed his cloak, rubbing his arms as he approached the watch.

Beregond turned and nodded at him. "My Lord," he said in greeting. The man was completely drenched; Faramir suspected he had spent quite some time standing in the rain.

"Anything?" asked the steward, squinting as he peered down the blackened road. The empty houses were dark and lonely, standing like a line of weary sentinels.

Beregond sighed, shaking his head as he folded his arms across his breast. "Nay, sir. It is frightfully quiet." The irritation and anxiety in his tone mirrored Faramir's own. The rest of the men stood warily, their eyes constantly scanning the darkened town, hands resting impatiently on the hilts of their swords.

The Captain of the White Company was right: it was still enough for Faramir to feel every droplet of water strike his skin with amazing acuity. His breath formed a ghostly cloud of vapor before his lips as he asked, "How is your wound, Beregond?" Before them the black swirled and meshed, and at every glance there appeared to be the haunting figure of a man. Often he was forced to spend another second in analyzing the scene to make sure that it was only the figment of his restless imagination. "Does it pain you still?"

Beregond looked to him from the corner of his eye. "Not at all, and I will be sure not to lapse in my protection of you again."

Faramir smiled weakly, both to reassure his friend and to absolve him of this silly guilt he continually and vehemently tried to assume. The warrior still held himself accountable for falling at Emyn Nimsîr, as though the injury he had sustained had somehow been of his own making. Faramir had tried to disabuse Beregond of this notion, for no harm had come to him because of his guard's forced negligence. Even if it were otherwise, it was still wrong of Beregond to blame himself for the foul course of things.

They stood in silence for a long time. Around them was a great, choking void of blackness, and it seemed to Faramir that the whole world had been swallowed into oblivion. There was simply nothing but an endless abyss beyond the edges of his eyes. The sky was so very dark, drowning light and hope in a crushing blanket of midnight and rain. Without the light of the moon and stars, traveling through the thick forest surrounding the city would be difficult and hazardous. Faramir glanced upward at the formless curtain of black and gray hanging over them, breathing deeply to calm his agitated body. Perhaps these foul conditions would dissuade them from attacking. Perhaps the heavy night would prove too much a hindrance.

"Perhaps they are not coming, my Lord," Beregond whispered. There was a mixture of relief and disappointment in his quiet tone, and for a moment, Faramir was inclined to believe him.

Then there was a shrill scream. Faramir's heart leapt into his heart, thudding wildly, and his eyes went wide as he ripped around. Everything stopped, time drawing to a screeching, perilous halt. A collective gasp went through the watch as a soldier fell from the entrance. All eyes were glued to the horrific scene, bodies paralyzed and breaths locked in tight chests, as the men scrambled across the wet courtyard. "They are inside the manor! They are _inside_!" Then the man collapsed into a puddle. A black arrow protruded wickedly from his back. He jerked once and then died.

_No._

Reality snapped violently into motion, and the world jerked horrifically around Faramir as his men howled their fury. Swords were drawn, the blades glowing wetly as they were lifted into the rain, and the soldiers charged into the grand foyer. Thought fled Faramir as he yanked his weapon from his scabbard and ran back into the manor, his legs pumping, his lungs burning. Darkness enveloped him as they stampeded with a spray of water into the blackened structure. "Light!" He heard Beregond shouting, vague shapes of men rushing all about him in a frenzied panic. "Bring light!"

A scuffle reverberated off of the vaulted ceilings and high walls. The sound of wet boots slapping against the floor, grunting, and harsh breathing filled the air, shattering the heavy silence that had once dominated the hall. Finally, a light was struck and the man bearing the torch stepped forward frantically. Golden illumination spread out over the area, slamming into the obstinate shadows and shoving them back. The light flickered weakly for a moment, but it did not go out. It remained bright and steadfast in its purpose. But the spirits of every man present wavered before plummeting into the deepest recesses of horror.

_No!_

The scene before them was nothing short of utter carnage. The various sentries that had been guarding the manor and the city limits were littered about the once immaculate floor of the palatial foyer. Many had died in surprise, their mouths open in soundless shrieks, their soulless eyes wide and imploring. Most had been gutted or mutilated. Blood stained everything. It was obvious their assailants had roamed the area, stealthily ambushing and murdering their men, and then had dragged the corpses to this place as a terrible trophy, as if gruesomely gloating.

There was no time to really consider this, though, for the attack was upon them. An arrow shot forth, careening faster than Faramir's eyes could track, and stabbed deep into the neck of the man bearing the torch. With a wet gurgle the soldier fell, and the torch winked out as its flame struck a puddle of watery blood.

Chaos broke free.

Faramir clenched the hilt of his sword as their enemies rushed at them from the cover of blackness. He released a cry of fiery rage as he swung at an approaching demon, his fury controlling his body and mind as a single, flawless unit. There were no thoughts, no worries, no fears. There was only the strength of his wrath, and he embraced it. He felt satisfying resistance as the edge of his sword sliced through flesh, and he yanked the blade from the shadow, whirling madly and driving it into the leg of another monster. The black form before him squealed in agony before falling. Grim approval stroked the fire within him, and he spun.

The fight went on for long minutes. The sounds of death echoed in the large chamber, cries piercing, swords singing, blood dripping. The screams were shrill as they were released with final breaths, and the forms on the floor were trampled under the desperate feet of those still dancing in a fight to live. Opponents were faceless, voiceless, and in this sucking vacuum Faramir could only block and slash on instinct. He settled into a warrior's trance, one where doubt and terror could not touch him, and he went beyond his senses to anticipate blindly the attacks of his opportunistic enemies. He moved languidly, powerfully, avoiding jabs and stabs a split second before the deadly swords would have met their mark, returning with blows of his own. Another man fell as his sword cut his throat. Faramir felt something warm and wet bathe his hands and face, and he vaguely realized he was covered in blood.

It was a nightmare. A depthless chasm spread before them. It sought to devour them, to drag them into its shadowy prison. Second after second went by, each a moment in which this monstrous nothingness might take them. How terrible to meet an end like this! Without honor, without hope, without even identity. In the deep darkness, Gondor became Harad, friend became foe, and there was no escape. Chance and skill were the only weapons afforded to these warriors. Death yearned for them all.

But then it ended. The screams faded, the clamor of battle receding into a horrific echo. Silence. Panting. Moaning and crying. Light came again as someone found the strength to bring truth to the moment. The reality was parsed from the hellish illusion.

Faramir swallowed uncomfortably, struggling to catch his wind. His heart pounded painfully, threatening to break from his chest, and he resisted the urge to gag. As the weak light spread over the foyer, a gruesome sight was revealed. Even more lay dead now, most killed haphazardly. A lucky blow in a desperate and blind struggle was the instrument of choice among those that remained standing. The steward sagged, feeling sick and wearied by the blood staining his hands, his clothes, and his home.

_Pull yourself together! Think clearly, before they come again!_

Quickly his mind pulled together thoughts made loose by the battle, and he realized that the only reason they had won this fight was in their size. The Easterlings had only attacked with a scant few men, most of whom now lay dead at their feet. He did not like the implication of this chilling fact. _There must be more! Surely they did not attack with so few! There must be many more!_

"Faramir!" Beregond shouted, pulling him from his panicked thoughts. The man's face was white and shaken. "The gate is still secure! How did they get in here?"

Racing ideas and questions tumbled through his stricken mind, and he labored to make sense of the situation. The men were reforming around him, those left unharmed by the ambush approaching from all areas of Emyn Arnen. Panic consumed them, their eyes glowing in terror and doubt.

"Where are the ambush parties?"

"How many more are there?"

"How did they get in? _How?_"

"They come again, my Lord!"

Faramir brandished his sword, furious and helpless. This made no sense! There was something! There had to be something! If they did not learn where the enemy was breaching their defenses, they would fall! They could not defend the entire city with such few numbers! He did not know how long it might take for the ambush companies to reinforce their position, but he was not willing to risk defeat by simply falling back into the keep. They would be cornered. Moreover, there was no way to be certain that the Easterlings could not force their way in there as well. _Think!_ He grew frustrated and frenzied, and only the chiding voice of logic demanded that he remain calm. _Panic will do you no good._ _Think! If they have not breached the wall and the gate is locked, then they must be finding another way into the compound. _Faramir shook his head numbly and gritted his teeth._ But there are no other ways. Gimli made certain of it. There are no other ways!_

_Gimli._

_Of course!_

The wine cellar. When they had been designing and rebuilding the manor, defense had been a major priority. As such, there was only one entrance to Emyn Arnen, and that was through the main gate. No one could gain access to the city without first passing through the guarded portcullis. As he thought now, though, he remembered that Gimli, when explaining the design of the manor, had told him a natural hollow beneath the western end of the complex. It was little more than a small tunnel that led to a small, old wine cellar. The importance of it, though, was far beyond a simple enclave for the storage of vintages. The narrow tunnel continued for perhaps half a league west of the compound, exiting in an inconspicuous cave deep in the woods. Unless one was specifically searching for it, it was invisible, hidden under brush and rock. The Dwarf had asked Faramir if the steward had wished for him to fill the tunnel and block the exit. He had declined Gimli's offer; the tunnel was useful as an escape route should the need ever arise.

Somehow the Easterlings had come to know of it.

"They enter through the cellar! Hurry! Gather all your men!" he ordered Beregond. The man flashed him a doubtful, worried look for only a moment before rushing off to do as his lord asked. The men scrambled, running with torches through the foyer, heading for the descending paths into the depths of the stone manor.

As he yelled for the men to hurry, another thought occurred to Faramir. At first he gave the needling concern little heed. The worry paid no regard to his bidding, though, growing loud in its insistence until he was forced to consider it. Why attack this way? The tunnel was too small to effectively move many troops quickly, which explained the few enemies they had thus far faced. Surely surprise was not incentive enough to engage in such a wanton maneuver. Did they intend to send men to the gate and open it? "Reinforce the main entrance!" he bellowed. A man nodded and sprinted out and into the rain.

Then it all made sudden and chilling sense. They were to act as bait. The promise of the death of the Prince of Ithilien was the incentive for the attack. The assassins would have gone to the lord's chambers to complete their objective: the murder of the Steward of Gondor.

He glanced around frantically, searching the men. But the man he sought was not among them. He had never been. And then Faramir knew. His world burst into a fiery red. He _knew!_

Holis had come to kill him.

It hit him like a driving spike of ice. _Éowyn._

Then he was running, his long legs propelling him up the grand stairs. Beregond was shouting to him, but his friend's voice was lost in the pounding of his heart and the straining of his breath. Panic fueled him, driving his tired body beyond its limits as he bounded down the hall. He could think of nothing save his terror. His fear. _His wife._

His feet thundered down the corridor. Doors flew past him in a blur of shadow. His body was pumping, aching, dying. Tears bled from the corners of his eyes, streaking into his hair, as he tore through the winding hallways. It was too far. _Faster. Faster!_

Finally, after what seemed to be a harrowing eternity, he reached the door to their chambers. The hall was quiet and empty. Silent. He could barely hear above the booming of his pulse. He swallowed fearfully, his eyes wide and terrified, as his shaking fingers grabbed the knob.

It was locked.

_Please, no!_

"Éowyn!" he cried. His fury burst free from whatever restraint that had still fettered it, pure hysteria driving his body. He pulled and yanked at the knob violently, but the metal refused to budge. The blood on his hands made his grip slick and useless. This was not happening! Desperate, he pounded on the door with every ounce of his strength, smashing his fists against the hard wood until his knuckles split and bled. "Éowyn, no!" The wood was too strong. It was made to withstand this sort of battery. Yet these logical thoughts never reached his terrified body, and he launched all his weight into this assault. He threw himself against the door with a bang, but it hardly budged. A sob welled up in his throat as he flung his body to it again, putting all his panicked might into the blow.

Nothing.

His sword clattered uselessly to the floor as his strength failed him, grief and fury overwhelming his spirit. He collapsed against the firm door, weeping, gasping, cursing it and himself and the foul workings of life. He had had the chance to stop that demon. He had felt the evil the man exuded! He had had the chance to kill him! But he had done nothing.

Tears streamed down his broken, quivering face, bathing his cheeks in a bloody river. _Please, take me for my wrongs! Save her! Take me!_

There came a scream, shrill and terrified.

"_Éowyn!"_


	21. Now Without a Word

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks so much for all the reviews and alerts! I really enjoy reading them, and I'm thrilled so many people are reading this.

And now a turn for the better…

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: NOW WITHOUT A WORD**

Faramir did not know how long he knelt there, pressing his quivering, useless body to that door. Time lost all meaning to him. Seconds might as well have been minutes, and minutes could have easily hours. It held no consequence. It held no purpose. He had failed. He had failed _her_.

He stopped breathing. He wanted his pounding heart to cease its panicked, painful beat, but it would not heed his wistful moans. His eyes slipped shut, though hot tears continued to leak from their corners. The thunder of his pulse deafened and destroyed him with each agonizing blast. Down came his despair, black and flaming, and he did not fight as its claws tightened about his throat. He wanted to die. He could not live without her!

Silence. It was quiet, deathly so. He heard neither cry nor gasp. Distant shouting resounded, but the words were lost to Faramir. He could only concentrate on the room and its unending quiet. Chills caressed his quivering, crouched form as he strained all his senses. Inexplicably a speck of hope pierced through the veil of midnight about his sagging spirit. Though tiny and feeble, it refused to disappear among the suffocating folds of his misery. _Do not give up! Do not give in! Fight for her!_

His courage roared free from the cage of cowardice. He stood with a cry, grabbing his fallen blade, and launched himself at the door anew, unwilling to admit, unable to accept. Thought fled him, leaving this single, fluttering breath of faith. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the protests of his abused body, he threw all his weight into the door with a hoarse cry.

Needless to say, he was greatly surprised to find the resistance gone.

Faramir's desperate shout escalated into an alarmed yelp as he pitched forward, the door swinging open before his body came to strike it. He was falling, given no chance to balance himself as his excess inertia struck nothing. There was no time to act or think or digest his surprise. He struck the floor, hard and heavy, and the wind rushed from his lungs. His teeth jabbed into his tongue and the bitter warmth of blood filled his mouth.

When he managed to compose himself enough to again swallow and draw breath, he saw gold and light. Dazed, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. The blurry form took shape, gaining delicate detail and soft familiarity.

"Éowyn," he breathed, choking on a sob. He scrambled from the floor, his body lethargic and sloppy as he pushed himself to his feet. His wobbly legs were so weak with the strength of his tumultuous emotions that they nearly spilled him to the ground once more, but he refused to fall. She stood before him, her eyes bright blue with fear and overwhelming joy. Could she be real? Was this merely some figment borne from a mind torn asunder, created from senses that could not bear to subject him to the torture that reality would incur?

But he thought no more on that. His fingers touched her skin, smooth and cool to his rough, sweaty heat, and with a whimper he engulfed her into his arms. The sword she had been holding fell to the ground with a terribly loud clang. "Oh, Faramir! Faramir!" Éowyn whispered, melding into his embrace. He tightened his arms, grateful beyond words to simply feel her against him, to have her racing heart thud near his own, to smell her hair and know the weight of her body pressed to him. For the longest moment the two remained, grasping madly at the comfort the other provided, shaking in great waves of powerful relief. She was safe. _She was safe._

The world came back to him, and he pulled away, his eyes flashing in intense concern and slowly receding panic. "Are you hurt?" he demanded of her, holding her arms and staring wildly into her deep eyes.

She was breathless, her face pale. "Nay, I am well," she gasped in response. In the meager light he could see darkness cover the white of her nightgown, spreading down the breast of the garment in a sticky, black stain. He realized what it was immediately.

Disgusted and petrified, he touched the blood. But he felt only firm flesh and muscle beneath the wet, thin fabric, and he knew then that she was not injured. The blood obviously belonged to someone else. Panting, he glanced around the dark room, his eyes frantically searching for clues as to what had happened. One arm he kept around his wife, and the other he used to lift his sword from the ground. The shadows shifted.

Faramir's jaw came open limply. He would have thought such an action rude and unbecoming of his station were it any other time. At the moment, he could manage nothing else, so intense was his shock. Apparently he had been wrong. He could not believe it, much less understand it.

"Your lady is safe now," Holis declared quite matter-of-factly as he stepped from the darkness. In a flash of bright steel, his dangerous sword whipped down. Faramir grimaced and lifted his own sword at the abrupt and threatening action. But Holis had only done so to whip the thick blood from his weapon to the ground, as he then wiped the blade on a black blob Faramir belatedly realized to be a corpse. The emperor then sheathed his sword in one languid motion, a metallic ring resounding in the tense, breathless silence.

He stood still, his black eyes holding Faramir's gaze. His handsome face was calm, without crease or blemish, and he appeared the apathetic warrior. His eyes were depthless and placid, but there was fire behind them. They were hungry, hot, and aggressive. But the man made no move towards him, and Faramir felt himself again draw breath. He turned his eyes to his wife, and Éowyn nodded. "He speaks the truth," she whispered. Her pale lips barely moved with the words. "Had he not come…"

But Faramir's misgivings would not be so easily assuaged. He eyed Holis warily, his heart thudding in a mad rush. It was not that he did not believe the words of his wife; nothing could be further from the truth. Still, even as a supposed savior, Holis was masked, guarded and mysterious. Faramir's stomach coiled tightly. "Why was the door locked then?" he questioned, narrowing his eyes as he glared at the emperor.

Holis sighed, making a show of his exasperation. "Really, my Lord. You distrust me so much as to accuse me?" _Yes, and with good reason._ The man remained silent a moment, his expression tense and resentful. However, Faramir would not divert his stony stare without an answer, and the man eventually conceded. "If I must humor you in this childish prattle, then so be it. I was merely preventing more of these assassins from entering your room as I contended with those already present. Your wife, though she appears quite delicate and fair, is rather handy with a blade. Still, they would have quickly outnumbered her and completed their heinous task had I not intervened, and I venture that neither of us would stand here before you unscathed had I not locked that door."

Such an explanation immediately softened Faramir's fury. It made good sense, even to his muddled and stricken mind. Shame rushed over him, sucking away the strength his anger afforded him, and the wrathful color drained from his face. He felt the fool then, a terribly silly wretch. The man had saved Éowyn's life, a deed worthy of his deepest gratitude, and he repaid it with insult and doubt! How quick assumptions had made the ass of him! Holis spoke again, and Faramir inwardly cringed with the words. "Now, if you are through with these inane and imprudent comments, let us see to defending your manor."

The scathing comment was met with a withering glare from Éowyn, but Faramir squeezed her hand to stifle whatever harsh retort was pushing at her pale lips. Fighting would accomplish nothing, and there was far too much at stake! He pushed aside his bruised ego and moaning pride and adopted as much apathy as possible. He was a soldier, a leader, and the Steward. He was not about to let these petty squabbles jeopardize this mission.

There came a thunder down the hall. A moment later Beregond burst through the door left ajar, winded and desperate. "My Lord, the men await your orders! They have stationed themselves in the cellar, sir!" In the light of the lantern he bore, his eyes were tense and excited.

Éowyn's face broke in confusion, but Faramir paid her little heed. Now was the time to act! "Beregond, have the refugees assemble at the gate. Distribute weapons to all who can bear them. We _must_ hold that gate! Lead them in the defense."

Beregond nodded curtly, water dripping down in his face in a glistening sheen. "What will you do, my Lord?" he questioned.

Faramir stepped to the door, taking Éowyn by the hand. "I will lead the men through the tunnel to the Easterlings' rally point. We will strike at them now, when they have trapped themselves in narrow confines. Their cunning will turn to disaster and ill-fated planning in a matter of moments."

Beregond paled, although in the faint light his distressed appearance was barely noticeable. "We do not have men enough for such a venture," he reminded them softly, though without heat or rebuke. He was not seeking to dissuade his lord from his plan.

"I know, but we do have enough to distract them long enough for the ambush parties to arrive and crush them. When they come, tell Éomer that the tunnel exits deep in the forest half a league west from this place. Tell him he must attack there!"

"You assume that King Éomer can reach the gate to receive your news. Perhaps the Easterlings crowd outside the wall…" Beregond shook his head against his own thoughts, his eyes dark and clouded with concerned contemplation. Of course, he was right to ponder and doubt. There was much to this course of action that was uncertain and perilous. What Beregond had left unsaid was frightfully obvious. There could be any number of mishaps that might prevent Éomer and Imrahil from ever reaching the manor, not the least of which being the assault of the enemy. Faramir was certain his rangers already were aware of the attack. Still, if they could not reach the gate and learn of the enemy's location, Faramir's effort would receive no support. Death would be the ultimate outcome.

Beregond looked up, and now his face was stern, confident, and commanding. "It will be done, my Lord." The two men held each other's gazes for a moment in a grave look of understanding, the sort that veteran soldiers often share before potentially parting company for the last time. It was without rage, for rage did little to change the horrid fates of war. It was without sorrow, for sorrow was an unnecessary complication of duty. It was quiet and honorable, hopeful but not delusional.

Faramir felt Éowyn's cold, soft hand in his own, and he turned his attention to his wife. She regarded him with calm, distant eyes, but he saw her distress. He could see the fear creep about her piercing gaze. He squeezed her fingers. "Go with Beregond," he bade her quietly. Something akin to defiance sparkled in those striking orbs, and her jaw set ever so slightly. Faramir doubted she would be so brazen and thoughtless to speak publicly against his wishes, for she had been raised to frown upon such impropriety. Still, he gave her his reasons, if only to appease his own worries. "I must have you safe, and our people need you."

Those last words quelled the fire within her, and her face relaxed. Her strength would guide them, and she knew he needed her. This was no menial task or excuse to keep her from danger, and she embraced the responsibility. Éowyn nodded, the gesture small but telling of her love, and she turned with a swish of her clothes and unbound hair. Scooping up her previously discarded sword, she drew a soft breath as she looked again at him. Neither of them typically concerned themselves with melodramatic tokens of affection and romance, and this instance was no exception. They needed no such frivolities. She looked to him, and he to her, and both were secure that this would not be the last moment of their love.

Beregond waited for the Lady of Ithilien to exit the room, after which he offered Faramir one last, reassuring nod before following her. Now the steward was alone with the emperor.

An awkward silence descended upon them. For all the want of his desperate heart and frustrated mind, Faramir could do naught but wait, hoping that Holis would end this uncomfortable moment. Guilt choked whatever words he might have said, strangling his intentions to apologize. Somehow the steward surmised that this moment must have been strange and unsettling to the other man as well, for, though Holis looked in his direction, never did those black eyes fall directly upon him.

Finally, the emperor had had enough. "We waste time. Let us be gone."

Faramir turned suddenly and appraised the man with a hard stare. "I do not ask you to defend lands not your own," stated the steward, vaguely and selfishly hoping to dissuade Holis from joining him. "This fight will be dangerous."

Holis' eyes were cold and steely as he stepped past the still ranger. "Fie, my Lord. The perils you face cannot remotely compare with the hazards put upon a servant of the Dark Master."

The words stunned Faramir into silent submission, and the steward leapt to follow the emperor. The man's stride was long and purposeful as he led the lord through his own manor, and Faramir was astounded by the other's skillful navigation. Though he was certain Holis had only once or twice made this trip through these winding corridors to the entrance hall, the man seemed to know exactly which way to turn at every bend. His aplomb was absolutely disturbing.

Down the stairs they bounded. Though the shadows were thick and formless, neither man was hampered by the blackness that obscured their vision. Steps fell hard and fast, quick and always teetering but never faltering. It seemed to Faramir that they were tumbling into deep recesses where demons and monsters awaited their arrival, where no light could penetrate, where death slithered about the darkness. He wondered at the intelligence in this descent, as he wondered at the tenuous bond that had formed between Holis and himself in this desperate moment. These needling thoughts lurked in the back of his mind, underneath the racing of his heart and breath, below the vague apathy that had claimed him for the sake of concentration. Deep and dark, they burst into a new world. Though only feet beneath the ground, they had breached the walls of a dungeon, a trap, a place where fear and hope and reality all blended into a hot and dark nightmare.

Faramir stepped around Holis as they leapt from the last steps to the hard floor of the cellars. The air was musty and dank, and the steward shivered at both the chill and the gloomy atmosphere. Along the walls, fresh torches hung fastened to sconces, their orange and yellow flames brightly illuminating the corridor. Shadows skirted to the safety of corners and nooks, and in their wake a trail of blood and corpses was exposed. Most of the dead were of the enemy, Faramir realized with no small amount of relief. He grabbed one of the wooden torches, pulling the pole from the metal bracket. The fire wavered with the motion, spreading flickering hope along the dirty floors and damp walls. Shouting echoed, loudly reverberating in the narrow passage, and a lesser man might have been disoriented. Tightening his grip about the torch, Faramir vehemently jogged down the main hall.

The sounds of clanking boots, shifting cloth, and fast breathing filled his ears as the steward led them deeper into the basement of Emyn Arnen. The area was comprised of many storage rooms marked by old doors, a few of which had fallen loose of their hinges. The cellars more resembled labyrinths for all their twists and turns. Not often had Faramir ventured into them, as, even though he was hardly a man to be frightened by macabre tones and spooky surroundings, he found this particular place rather unpleasant and even unsettling. It was a remnant of the previous manor. Gimli had deemed the foundation sturdy enough for their purposes, and this catacomb of a basement had been left intact as the home was rebuilt atop it. Little work had been done to remedy its dilapidated and dirty nature, as many of the carpenters and masons found this place as disagreeable as their lord did. Hardly any of the rooms had been stocked with supplies, especially deeper into the maze, and most were home to only rats, mildew, and the ghost of times past when they had been better kept.

Faramir smiled grimly. His memory had not failed him; ahead was the wine cellar in question. It was nondescript and unremarkable and about as wide and welcoming as any of the others. Men gathered around the rotted door, many standing stiff with fright and worry. At seeing their lord approach, resolution claimed their once slumped forms, bringing light to their eyes and strength to their hands. The crowd of anxious soldiers parted to allow Faramir and Holis to pass into the small room. The steward's torch was handed to another. As they entered, Faramir noted the pile of corpses against the wall, the hideously bent and bleeding forms shrouded in a shadow of death. Quickly he turned his eyes to the matter at hand.

The tunnel did indeed empty into this little dark space. Its mouth could hardly be called a door, as it was more a gap in the wall where the stones had been smashed. The blocks surrounding the gaping hole were ragged. Obviously this exit had been discovered by accident, and no move had ever been made to reveal or repair it.

The room was silent. Three or four men were pressed to each side of the wall, bearing bows and swords, clearly waiting for signs of the next wave of attackers. All senses were strained, focused without lapse or pause upon that jagged breach.

One of the young men stood near the door, holding a torch and watching with wide eyes as his lord entered the room. "Sir!" he barked. His face flushed and eager as he saluted stiffly and nearly dropped his sword.

"Shush!" Faramir hissed sharply. His eyes flashed as he quickly scanned the room, and he tipped his head towards the others holding torches. They understood his unspoken command, and quickly the flames were extinguished. The young man fumbled to follow suit, shame burning in his eyes.

Darkness fell all about them, and only the light from the hall served to fight the overwhelming shadows. The man floundered a moment, their breathing loud as they adjusted to the blackness. But Faramir was ready, and his senses were quick and his feet agile. Holis followed him as he stepped up beside the group of soldiers alongside the wall. "Do they come still?" he whispered, wrapping his hand about the pommel of his blade.

"Aye, sir," responded the man closest to the opening. The soldier was pressed to the wall, his blade glimmering wetly in the meager light that snuck in from the corridor. "They arrive in groups of three or four. We know not if those beyond realize what becomes of them…"

The warrior spoke no more of it, but Faramir understood what irked him about this situation. Surely those on the other end of the tunnel knew that the men they sent into the manor moved no further than this. It seemed inconceivable to expect otherwise; the Easterlings had proven repeatedly the depths of their cunning, perception, and intelligence. But if so, then why continue in this farce?

_There is no time to wonder why. Act now, think later!_

"We go in," Faramir declared in a calm whisper, "quickly, carefully, and in force. Move forward in small groups. We must push them back and hold them until reinforcements arrive."

Another soldier spoke, a faceless voice emanating from the shadows. "Sir, is that wise? Why not simply wait here? We hold an advantage!"

To say the thought had not occurred to him would have been a lie, and there was no worth in deceiving himself. Yet again did the doubts surface within him. Why forfeit this stronghold? As long as they guarded this point, the Easterlings could not advance further into the manor. Though they could not be sure all of the intruders had been killed in the previous encounter, Faramir doubted many more could sneak about undetected. Furthermore, they surely could not open the gate from within as heavily guarded as it was. This was a fine position to defend, and to his conscientious mind it seemed a perfectly logical if not safe course of action.

But he could not accept it. Something greatly bothered him about this situation. It was almost too sloppy, and such behavior was decidedly uncharacteristic of their foe. Gondor had been lured into too many traps by these demons. Carefully did they plan and manipulate situations into creating a certain perception that guaranteed them a victory. Faramir could not attribute the sensation to anything but pure feeling, but somehow he knew that there was more to this than they could see or understand. Once more were they skirted the boundaries of a vicious trap, and he did not want to be lured into the hidden jaws. Their enemies wanted them to remain secure in this supposed advantage.

Moreover, the desire to see these monsters pay for their crimes was snarling within him. This campaign was meant to be an offensive incursion, and Faramir intended to strike a blow to the Easterlings for all the damage done to Gondor and her people. He was disgusted at the hatred festering within him, but at the moment, with the thought of what those demons would have done to his wife tormenting him, he did not care to repress it.

Holis spoke, reminding Faramir with an embarrassed jolt that he had fallen silent. "Listen to your lord," ordered the emperor in a cold, quiet tone. He spoke no more, giving no reason for the men to obey him, but the others did all the same. They grew silent and calm, preparing to go to battle with a slow breath. The steward gritted his teeth, perturbed that this complete stranger could so easily command his men. Who did he think he was? Was his mere presence so powerful, so austere, so dominating? Anger churned within him, and he clenched his fist hard enough to dig his fingernails painfully into palm.

Forcing these distracting thoughts aside, he turned a bit, angling his neck to peer into the tunnel. The vacant whistle of wind came from the vacuum. The passage was not large enough to effectively swing a sword, especially if one had a comrade beside him. He realized that an archer with a stout bow would be the best leader of their charge.

He turned and regarded of the soldiers. The man was a bit elderly, his face worn and tired of life. "Give me your bow, sir," Faramir asked quietly, as he nodded curtly to the soldier. The weathered face adopted a knowing smile, and then the man's head bobbed, handing his lord his short bow. A quiver half full of brown fletched arrows the steward received as well, and he quickly strapped it to his person. He made certain the arrows were easy to grasp and that they came free from the quiver without resistance. He would need to be able to move quickly and stealthily, and a snagged arrow would only leave him fumbling in the darkness.

After testing the string of his bow, he turned to his men. "Follow after me in rapid procession. Do so quickly and quietly. We must not alert those presently in the tunnel of our approach, lest they turn and warn the camp. Do _not_ turn back. Is that understood?" he whispered, looking about the men assembled. His words were met with resolute nods, and the steward turned.

He gripped the arc of the bow and inched closer to the entrance. The man who had been standing in that position scrambled to the other end of the wall. Though the black had moments before been complete and effectively blinding, his eyes had now well acclimated to the darkness. His training as a ranger guided his body and his senses. Long had he been taught to consider the shadows an ally, as they guarded movement well. This time would be no exception, and he was almost glad for the utter vacuous darkness within that narrow tunnel. If he was careful enough, the Easterlings would never know that he was coming until it was too late.

Holis stood close to him. No words were shared, but it was more than obvious what the emperor intended. He drew from his belt a dagger, and angled himself along the other side of the entrance. Faramir drew a deep breath to calm his nerves, his heart pounding madly in his chest. His hands were steady, though, as he pulled an arrow from the quiver and fitted it to the bow. He closed his eyes briefly and thought of Éowyn. Though Gondor was perhaps a more suitable source of solace and confidence, he could only imagine her, the look of fright upon her pretty face forever burned into him. He would not stand to see her threatened again. He would not!

He opened his eyes and looked to Holis. Together, the two of them stepped into the tunnel.

Darkness enveloped them. Faramir could see naught save the faint outline of shadow upon shadow. Holis released a short breath, perhaps in dismay or surprise, and that quiet sound was abruptly amplified to a seeming deafening rush of wind. Even the slightest noise might alert the enemy to their presence. They would have to exercise extreme caution.

Quickly they advanced down the tunnel. Faramir swallowed panic borne from the sensation that they were inexplicably racing towards oblivion, to an endless abyss that would hungrily swallow them, to their own doom. As disquieting as that was, he was not about to be dissuaded by it. Years of training and innate talent brought to him calm and composure. Upon this black path there was no up or down, no left or right, no sense of forward or purpose. It would be all too easy to become disoriented and lose whatever meager sense of direction he still possessed. To combat this, he pressed his forearm to the wall as he ran, and he did not once lose contact. He only hoped the tunnel was relatively straight, otherwise this strike would end quickly when the men became lost in the emptiness.

Faramir heard footfalls and heavy breathing. In an instant he knew these sounds were not of their making. It was ahead of them. _They are coming._

He came to a short stop, drawing a deep breath. He felt Holis halt as well, though the man was merely an outline of lighter shadow upon pitch black to his eyes. The emperor stood absolutely still, and if Faramir had not felt the heat of the man's side pressed to his own, he would not have known a soul inhabited this tunnel besides him. Clearly the man was as skilled with weapons as he was with words, for he appeared to be quite an able warrior, gifted with the stealthy skills of a ranger. Inexplicably he grew envious of the other's talents. _A Lieutenant of Sauron should be so gifted. Now concentrate!_

He focused. The crushing darkness seemed to draw in his eyes, and he grew lost and disoriented by the nothingness. Heavily he leaned into the wall, reminding himself what direction he was facing. Slow footfalls echoed loudly, and that cacophony was followed by the booming hiss of whispering voices. Years of experience permitted him easy localization of the noise: these men were some twenty or thirty feet ahead and slightly to the right of their current position. They shuffled and ambled slowly, as if frightened by what lay ahead of them. _As well they should be. _These fools had no hope for stealth, given the ruckus they were making.

And could this be? Faramir nearly shook his head as he squinted into the darkness. For a moment he held his breath, doubting his eyes, for of what they were trying to convince him seemed utterly preposterous. A few tense moments followed, and in the span of a few heartbeats, the steward was forced to accept his sight for the truth. The approaching enemies bore fire. Torchlight licked and lapped at the walls, turning them brown and golden. The penumbra grew as the light pushed back the black veil. Soon it encompassed the men themselves as they snuck towards them.

Faramir nearly smiled for their stupidity. There were four enemies in total, and they walked in oblivious pairs. Their faces were wrapped in black cloth, and they were garbed so as to conceal themselves in shadows, shadows they had foolishly scattered with those torches. Eyes glinted nervously as they quickly scanned the tunnel about them. The steward knew he and his companion were safely out of sight, and it was more than likely from the men's confident approach that they had no concept of what awaited them.

Faramir drew a deep breath. It was time to clear the path to victory.

Then he lifted his arm and drew back on the bowstring. Even if his target had noticed the swish of cloth or the sound of the weapon bending, he was not given time to react. The arrow left Faramir's fingers and a breath later it struck the neck of the man on the right. The soldier went down with a screech and a gurgle. His comrade opened his mouth to scream a warning, but he never got the chance to voice his intentions. A careening dagger sunk deep into the man's chest, and he fell back, his mouth open in a soundless scream.

By now, the other two men were fumbling for their weapons. Their attempts to defend themselves against their hidden attackers would be too late, though, for Faramir had already drawn another arrow taut along his bow. His aim was straight and true, and his shot brought down the third man easily. The steward reached behind him for another arrow, but he saw momentarily there was no need. A rush of sound within a vacuum of breathless fear heralded Holis' coming, for the emperor had sprung forth from his position like lightning arcing through a midnight sky. A second later Holis was beside the remaining man, his gleaming blade held parallel to his chin. The sword rammed the terrified Easterling, and the man only choked softly on his final breath as his former leader felled him.

The torch was upon the ground, burning still though the hand that had once grasped it was now limp and lifeless. Holis returned to stomp out the flame, but Faramir rushed to him, stepping around the mess upon the ground. "Leave it," he gasped softly, "to light the way from the others."

Holis met his gaze a moment, the dark eyes of the emperor questioning and cold. He only nodded curtly, though, and then they were running again. Time was of the essence. They would have to move quickly before the camp realized that these latest men had never reached their destination. Behind him Faramir could just barely detect the sounds of their own forces entering the tunnel. He narrowed his eyes in satisfaction; the men were following quickly and as silently as they could. All that mattered now was reaching the end of the way before the Easterlings realized they were coming. Whatever doubts that might have once plagued him left in the heat of excitement and hatred. It was too late to turn back now.

His lungs burned. His heart thundered. Everything felt slow and lethargic, though in reality they were running with all possible speed through the blackened passage. The darkness pulled at him, latching onto his clothes and hair, seeking to trap him within its endless and hopeless prison. As the seconds disappeared, the steward could not help but begin to worry. Surely they were close to the exit! He wondered at how long they had been running, for certainly it had been but mere minutes, but that small period had been elongated by fear and apprehension. A stupid thought occurred to him, and he found it rather insulting that he could not silence its needling voice. What if there was no entrance? What if they had been somehow turned about? What if they were trapped? _What if —_

But ahead there was light. Faramir found himself nearly shaking with relief at the sound of the rain striking the ground. Dark blues chased away the suffocating blacks. Ahead there were tall stripes and moving blobs. Men among the trees. The air smelled cooler and cleaner, losing its tight hold upon them, and the sickening sense of claustrophobic desperation faded into a warm rush of exhilaration. The walls moved away from them, widening into the cave at the end of the tunnel.

The two men parted ways, Faramir stepping quickly and softly to the left wall of the cave. The shadows swept down and consumed Holis' form as the emperor halted along the right end of the room. Only his eyes glowed bright as he pressed his body into the embrace of darkness. Faramir watched him for a moment longer before inching silently along his own wall. He stilled his breath, wishing not to alert the group of enemies outside the cave's entrance. A quick estimate revealed about twenty men immediately beyond the cave, and Faramir was certain more remained obscured from his vision, hidden by the dense woods, the rain, and the night. Even so, twenty was a few more than two men, no matter their skill or experience, could face alone.

Thankfully, they would not long have to wait for reinforcements. The other Gondorians were already arriving, for their steps grew more audible with every passing moment. There was no more time to delay. Every second they spent in deliberation was one more the enemy might use to his advantage, and Faramir was certain that some greater, more heinous plan was their true intent in this attack. Maintaining a defensive strategy had thus far gifted them with only defeat. Given all probabilities and the uncanny nature of fate, another bout with such a mindset would likely deliver the same disastrous result. _"Value can only be measured by risk."_ Never was there a truer thought!

If they were to waylay their enemy, now was the time.

He gritted his teeth. There was no choice to make, for this was the only option. He was tired of seeing Gondor's blood spilt by these cruel and vicious demons. He was weary of the guilt and shame, of the helpless anger, of the nights spent wondering and hoping. This battle would not be lost on account of hesitation or fear. They would make this stand!

He pulled an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the bow. The weapon was a bit shorter than those he usually brandished, and he took this into account as he peered into the shadows beyond the cave, choosing one particular shifting blob as a target. He glanced at Holis briefly, and he found the other man ready and waiting. Then he pulled the bowstring back, narrowing his eyes as he stood stiff and powerful. The arrow was released with a snap, and a second later the blob let loose a mighty squeal before disappearing, crumpling to the shadowy ground. An alarm immediately resounded through the camp, shouting and running feet drowning out the steady hum of the rain. The death had caused Faramir's intended effect, for the men were disoriented and surprised enough not to immediately realize from whence the attack had come. This moment of proverbial chaos was sufficient for the ranger to fell another man. As they scrambled for cover, Faramir relaxed somewhat, intensely grateful for the harsh weather that both impeded their motion and hindered their senses. It was providing an opportunity to both thin their numbers and delay their counter.

The boon of surprise quickly disappeared as the Easterlings began to realize the murdering shots were originating within the very cave they thought to be secure. Many more soldiers appeared within the trees, alerted by the commotion, knowing now that they were under attack. However, this conclusion had come to them too late, for the men of Gondor, fierce and powerful, poured from the cavern.

Faramir was silent and deadly as he stepped from the rock wall, yanking another arrow from his quiver. Light feet carried him into the rain, the nock of the shot already appropriately set to the string. Seconds later the arrow whizzed through the air and struck an approaching Easterling full in the chest. The man gave a muffled howl, his body snapped back by the force of the impact, his limbs twisting and bending as he tumbled to the muddy ground. Faramir only spent a breath watching before stepping rapidly to the side, avoiding the slash of a wicked sword. His assailant growled a frustrated curse, wheeling about and stabbing at the agile man again. The young lord moved without thinking, bringing his bow to block the blow. The sword cleaved the wooden portion in half, and this seemed to shock his assailant. Faramir used the man's distraction to his advantage, grasping the jagged end of the bow and ramming it into the other's exposed midsection. In a split second the ranger's sword exited its sheath, and the killing blow was dealt.

Grasping his bloody weapon tightly, Faramir spun, glancing back to the cave. His men now raced from the entrance, crying their fury, their weapons raised murderously. Rain drenched him, dripping into his eyes as he pivoted and rammed his fist into the face of an assailant. The man went down with a yelp, and the steward swung his sword up in a flashing, beautiful arc before driving it into the back of the prone man at his feet.

The woods came alive with the sounds of battle. The discord was fierce and frightening, chaos dominating the moment. Everywhere men fought and died, struggling to preserve their own life though the cold, wet night sought to steal it. Screaming and harsh breathing rent the air, and the trees wept furiously at the gruesome scene before them. It was hard to make sense of the chaos, for men of good and evil meshed together leaving only bare souls praying for their very survival. In the dark, it was difficult to tell friend from foe.

Still, it seemed fortune was smiling upon Gondor for the first time in this horrific war. Though the nation's forces were fewer, they had managed to strike a serious blow in the first few critical moments of the skirmish. Surprise had proved to be a powerful ally indeed, for the Easterlings were scrambling to form lines of defense against the assault of the White Company. However, Faramir knew that unless reinforcements arrived shortly, this initial victory would quickly turn into lasting defeat. They were greatly outnumbered. It was only a matter of time.

The last of the White Company burst forth from the cave, and the newest wave of soldiers joined the heated skirmish among the dark, brooding trees. Rain splattered all around, retarding movements and hindering senses. Faramir growled as he smacked aside the sword of an Easterling with a terrific screech. The force rattled his arms, and he was thankfully quicker to recover from the jolt, stabbing his blade deep into the man's chest. He wasted not a moment, whirling to face another attacker who he had heard charging from behind. He grabbed the man's wrist, ducking beneath the deadly blade, and shoved him back forcefully. The Easterling had not been anticipating this tactic, and a flash of sadness appeared within black eyes as he realized his fatal mistake. The steward's sword slashed his throat open.

Faramir stepped forward, his eyes wide and quick in looking about. He saw Holis battling. For a short moment, he could do nothing but stare. The man fought with such elegance and grace. His body moved in easy, languid feints and returns, and was he seemingly aware of each potential threat. The steward's stomach twisted at the sight with both admiration and a sense of confused disquiet. The way he spun and blocked, the lightning agility and quick feet, the utter calm and ease of every movement… _He fights like an Elf. Like Legolas._

He did not know why this observation bothered him so, but it certainly did. A queasy sense of disgust and anger mulled over his heaving body. Certainly it was not so odd a thing. Elves were endowed with natural prowess in the arts of war, skill and talent that went far beyond what any mortal could ever hope to attain. The closest example of such power was Aragorn, for the king had been well-versed in fighting by the Elves of Rivendell. Holis appeared to succeed even Aragorn in ability, though. His polish and poise were uncanny. _Indeed, you are no simple man._

As he stood there transfixed, he realized as well that Holis had been right in his premonition. He alone faced many opponents, having attracted the murderous rage of many foes. Those close to him he felled easily, but more and more arrived to the battle, enticed by the thought of slaying their most hated enemy. Faramir watched in dismay as a line of archers noticed the heated skirmish, and these men pivoted from their previous targets. The tips of the deadly arrows glistened wetly as they were pointed at Holis. He would not be able to defend himself! They would kill him!

And thus it came to it. A mere second was allotted to consideration of action, and this was not nearly enough time to fully deliberate the merits of what his body was already doing. Implications and consequences were lost, and his form jolted into a sprint without conscious direction. It did not occur to him that this man was a murderer, a monster, a demon that had killed many of his friends and nearly himself. It suddenly did not matter that this man had been his nemesis for years, that this man had ordered the massacre of thousands during the War of the Ring, that this man had been a Lieutenant of Sauron. Faramir acted, and there was nothing more.

The steward bounded through the woods, his legs pumping, his heart thundering, his breath ragged. He forced all the speed he could from himself, flying between the trees, narrowly missing men and swords alike. He would not make it!

Bowstrings were drawn tight and then released with a shattering _twang_.

He leapt. Holis turned at the exact moment Faramir collided with him. They went down in a mess of limbs, striking the ground hard. The arrows rained upon them, the edge of one tip grazing Faramir's temple as they tumbled. The pain and terror did not register, for the wind had left his body. The deadly arrows uselessly struck the ground where Holis had once stood.

Forever they seemed to roll. Faramir struggled to draw breath at the rough handling of his body. Finally, they came to a halt. Disoriented, the squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to keep his dizziness under control. Bile burned the back of his dry throat, but he only swallowed awkwardly. His pulse boomed painfully in his head, wracking his skull, and he winced. A weight atop him made breathing difficult, and he groaned. He cracked open his eyes when he felt sufficiently confident the nausea was under control.

Only after blinking away trapped tears and rain did the blurry scene gain any measure of focus. And when it did, Faramir found he had lost his wind again, though this time it was not pain or physical upset that had stolen his breath.

Holis' face was dangerously close to his. The man was sprawled atop him, effectively pinning his body into the wet leaves. Water seeped into his clothing, caressing his back, and Faramir shuddered. Those black eyes… The steward remained absolutely still. Never did the hungry, midnight orbs relinquish their hold upon his eyes. A numbing terror crawled over his body, ridding him of the ability to struggle. Stiff and horrified, he could not even find it within himself to move.

A hot breath caressed his face. "Thank you. I will not forget this." Light fingers came to wipe the blood drooling from the minor wound on Faramir's brow.

Then Holis was gone. In one swift motion, the man stood and faded into the rush of the battle.

Reality slammed violently into Faramir, and he rolled over, his chest heaving and his form shaking. Quivering fingers touched his temple where the other had smeared the blood. He suddenly felt terribly sick, his mind stricken and his body reeling with both the fall and the grotesque encounter. He could not even wonder at the exchange, so riled were his thoughts, and he sat in the muddy leaves for what seemed to be an eternity, struggling to overcome this disturbing moment.

_What does he want with me?_

"He comes!" A shrill cry filled the woods, loud and piercing. Unspeakable elation echoed in the tone. "The king comes! We are saved! The king!"

The shout was enough to break Faramir from his stupor, and he stood. The dark, wet forest spun uncooperatively around him a moment, and his legs wobbled, threatening to spill his bruised body to the ground once more. With a great amount of will he was able to push aside his fears and momentarily forget the caress of those fingers upon his skin. Stumbling, he lifted his sword and glanced around. He felt terribly confused and lost, as though days of action had transpired in the few moments he had spent dazed. _The king? Éomer?_

Indeed it was Éomer, and a cheer went through the weakened White Company as the thunder of approaching horses boomed over the rain and raging engagement. A moment later the parade of mounted warriors spilled from the shadows, launching into the fray. Swords cleaved heads from assailants. Horses kicked and reared. Men screamed in death and life.

Faramir turned around dumbly as a new source of proud cries reached his ears. He could hardly believe it. From all around did the ambush parties attack. The men charged from the thick woods, abandoning cover of darkness with weapons raised and hearts ready. The companies had completely surrounded the spot, pouring into the skirmish with fervor enough to rejuvenate the nearly beaten White Company. Yells of the glory of Gondor and Rohan were music, loud and euphoric. The Easterlings scrambled, floundering immediately as the great host surrounded and surprised them. There was no hope for their victory now. They were greatly outnumbered.

The fight lasted but a few minutes more. Faramir remained strangely detached from it, hardly noticing the stubborn Easterlings mount a last offense against their forces. His mind was lost in a violent haze of confusion and fear. He fought mindlessly, experience and instinct guiding his hands when his mind would not. Before he realized what had happened, it was over. The Easterlings had been defeated. Those that did not surrender were killed.

The rush of battle was slow to recede, and when it did leave his beaten body, he nearly collapsed to the ground for the lack of strength. Tiredly he leaned against a tree, watching as the Riders of Rohan herded up the remaining enemies. The men were cheering loudly, sharing their jubilation with the damp, cold night. Éomer and Imrahil approached, each veritably glowing. Warmth spread over him, and he smiled, gasping. The three men embraced, and the rain sang a chorus of exultation for the forces of good.

Only then did it strike him, the strange moment before all but forgotten.

They had _won_.


	22. Delight and Despair

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: DELIGHT AND DESPAIR**

It was over.

If there was any hope before, there could be none now.

Legolas was gone. They could not somehow bring him back.

_Dead._

Perhaps before there had been some shred of faith, some belief that there was a way to change the terrible finality. Perhaps by simply winning this war, by defeating the evil that had tormented them, the Elf would be restored and all would be as it once was. It hurt to realize there was no such panacea, that no act, simple or complex, could make right the wrong done to them. It was the way of a desperate mind, though, to cling to the impossible, to hold to the most ludicrous of chances. It was the only defense against a truth too terrible and cruel to accept, and when that final protection was stripped away from them, there would be nothing left but the undeniable reality.

It seemed to Faramir that such a time had come.

The steward grimaced and resisted the urge to flinch as his wife pressed a cloth to his bloody head. Éowyn's face was stern, but her eyes glistened with a bit of restrained amusement. "Sit still. Surely it is not so uncomfortable," she admonished softly. Faramir grunted, forcing his tense form to relax as she dabbed the wound. The laceration was not very deep, though it had bled quite a bit. Truth be told, there was simply too much to be done to waste time with this. He did not have the patience to sit still through the treatment of these minor scrapes and bruises. Éowyn had insisted, though, and he was not in a mood to subject himself to her cold wrath, either.

The victory at Emyn Arnen felt ages old to him, but only a day had passed. It seemed a completely unrealistic prospect to now be safe within Minas Tirith when only last night he was fighting in the dark, dangerous woods of Ithilien. His exhaustion afforded him a strange sort of detachment, and everything that had transpired since their sudden victory appeared to his lethargic mind as a hazy dream in which he had played no part. They had taken roughly fifty Easterlings prisoner. The number was not high, but, as it was, there had not been many of the enemy present in the beginning. Faramir had found it quite surprising that their foe had allotted so few soldiers to this battle, as the rough estimates on Imrahil's part had only resulted in a count of two hundred or so initially. Many had died. Those not fortunate to be slain in battle had taken their own lives when faced with captivity. The sheer number that lay dead in the woods had been astounding when the sun had rose to shine light upon the gruesome sight. As Faramir had stood, looking over the corpses strewn about the bloody trees, he decided that war was such a revolting waste.

Of the prisoners, though, a few were of special import. By a seemingly stroke of good luck, they had come to capture one of the Easterlings' leaders, a warrior who called himself Fallax. The man had an ill look about him, his face heavily scarred and his eyes haunted by hatred and lust. He was a great hulking mass of muscle, and he exuded a threatening air of malice and violence. He was the perfect picture of a soul crushed by war and rebuilt into a demon that loved anarchy and detested peace. He had been silently seething when the White Company had brought him, bound and chained like a vicious animal, before the feet of Faramir, Éomer, and Imrahil. The lords were unable, for all the want of their fiery, furious hearts, to elicit so much as one word from the brute. Faramir had offered leniency. Imrahil had threatened. Éomer had insulted. After nearly an hour of these sorts of fruitless endeavors with nothing but frustration and further hatred to show for it, Holis had intervened. Faramir had opted not to observe the emperor "persuade" the prisoner to speak; just thinking of it now made him feel dirty and shameful. They had not had the time for any other measure, but to his disgruntled mind such a rationale was putrid and poor. Sure enough, though, Fallax responded to Holis' treatment, and within minutes he had revealed the location of the Gondorian prisoners.

From thence they had ridden east. The Easterlings had apparently brought with them those they had captured at Emyn Nimsîr, dragging the bound and injured men about as though they were trophies. Though the prospect had at first surprised Faramir, the more he pondered the matter, the more he came to realize it made some sick sense. The Easterlings clearly lacked a steady camp; they moved quickly and at great distance. This beneficial tactic had twisted into their downfall. Their temporary position had been two leagues east of Emyn Arnen, and the Riders of Rohan had easily conquered their base. The place had not been fortified by many men; it was clear they had not anticipated an assault. The prisoners had finally been freed.

This was a great victory for Gondor. Faramir had watched with trepidation and hope as the Riders had returned to Emyn Arnen, his eyes wide and wistful. Concealing his pain at the terrible sight of those tormented souls had been far more difficult than he thought previously. Many had been beaten and brutalized. Most required the skilled hands of a healer, though Faramir doubted care for their bodies would do much to heal their obviously fractured souls. Rage had boiled in his blood as he had witnessed the men return to their friends. Even Holis, reserved in the moment, smiled at the return of the hobbled Ulpheth. But many were missing still. There was no other option, though to accept the cold truth was equitable to betrayal of friendship and hope. Those for which they still could not account were certainly dead. Faramir closed his eyes, blocking hot tears from their exit. He dreaded having to share this terrible news with Aragorn. Even now, when all seemed bright with triumph, shadows still encroached upon the edges of light.

The wounded had been placed on horses, and without further ado, the company had returned to Minas Tirith. The prisoners were made to walk in the rear under the constant supervision of Imrahil and his men, kept far from the innocent refugees that were escorted by their Lord and Lady. The Rohirrim headed the journey, leading the caravan across the Anduin, eyes constantly directed about them. For a time it had seemed doubtful indeed that this victory could be true. Paranoia had driven minds into fear and dread and hearts into rushing paces. Though there was no sign of such a thing, each man had privately feared that this, too, would be some sort of ruse, and that at any moment, when they were all least expecting it, when they were comfortable in success, the attack would come.

But it did not. When they reached Minas Tirith, the news of their victory spread quickly. The men walked tall and proud, euphoria gleaming in tired eyes though their faces remained stoic. The trumpets had resounded, clear and musical, welcoming back the heroes. The White City seemingly came alive, women waving at the returning troops, children laughing and playing in the streets, and everywhere there was joy and hope. Despite whatever problems still remained, whatever grief that lingered in hearts unwilling to acknowledge it, for the moment at least all was well. The evening had been bright and beautiful with camaraderie and compassion. Morale had soared, and for the first time in what had seemed to be a long and dark while, the dream of peace had reclaimed the people of Gondor.

As much as he wanted to remain with the celebrating troops and citizens, there was still much to be done. The prisoners had been booed, hissed, and insulted as they had been dragged through the rowdy streets. Fallax had done little aside from glare knives at everybody who dared meet his gaze. To Faramir's knowledge, the Easterlings who had surrendered were now in the dungeons of the city, under tight security for both the protection of the people and their own sake. Though the matter was remote to the present concerns, he could not help but wonder what would become of these monsters. Nay, not monsters. Men. Now, stripped of their weapons, armor, and pride, they were just men, not so different from the warriors of Harad that had aided Gondor in her cause. He tried to pity them at least for they perhaps they had served their cause unwillingly, chained to the dreams of their leaders as much as the Gondorians were bound to those of their king. Tied to darkness by their lords as much as Aragorn tied his nation to light. Yet this logic did not sit well with him. _Not men. Never men! They are monsters. They walk without humility, without repentance, without even admission of defeat! They do not fear us. Black, empty eyes… Never will they gain a soul to fill them!_

Faramir scowled. He wanted to believe that the prisoners were simple men, that their hearts burned in remorse or at least fear of punishment. But, as they were paraded about the streets and ridiculed by the citizens of Minas Tirith, not even one of them had shed a tear for their plight. None had hunched his shoulders in grief. None had begged for mercy or admitted his wrongs. They stood as tall and proud as the triumphant men of Gondor. This unnerved Faramir greatly. The wound within him, festering in grief and wrath, would not close. He knew he would need their penitence to heal. Sadly, he feared such regret would be long in coming, if it ever did.

His face began to sting and Faramir jerked sharply. Éowyn was quick to grab his jaw and hold him steady. He looked at his wife through the corner of his eyes, annoyed anew at her insistences that he receive care. The Houses of Healing were crowded with both the injured men from the battle and the recovering prisoners. There were hardly accommodations for him, and his wounds were minor grievances at any rate. He had no patience for this. Aragorn was expecting him in the Citadel for a report, and there was much to be said.

But he knew better than to question her. She was vehement, as he could tell by the cold glimmer in her eyes and the strong set of her jaw, and to cross her now would not be wise. There would be no quarrel, but Éowyn's wrath would be silent and icy. In his current condition, he doubted he had the strength to contend with a wife irritated. She was intent upon seeing his nicks, scrapes, and bruises tended, and though he itched to be in action, he could not deny his body's need of this moment of rest. Though his mind was alive and alert with many thoughts, he was weary and fatigued. Despite all the unanswered questions and unresolved hurts, he longed to sleep, to find some semblance of peace and forget this misery if only for a little while. He felt as though he had not truly rested in ages, and old injuries ached as persistently as new ones did. Éowyn had seemingly known of his unspoken wishes. These few moments would be enough to refresh him, he hoped.

She worked silently then at wiping away the blood. There was a great commotion all about them. Everywhere men and women were running, carrying trays of flasks, bandages, and herbs, and a dissonance of chatting, shouting, and moaning hummed in the warm air. Though there was much to be done, there was contentment. Death did not slink and creep about fearful hearts as it had days before. There was a controlled sense of euphoria that gave energy to the weary and faith to the hopeless. The defeat of the Easterlings had breathed life into Minas Tirith, and it was a glorious and welcomed sight.

Still, some things could not remedied, even with the touch of a healer's hand or the news of a powerful victory. Hidden beneath the spring in their steps and the glow in their eyes was the solemn knowledge of what had been lost. Of what could not be restored. So many had not come back. So many had not been found. It was difficult to truly enjoy the prospect of peace when such heavy burdens weighed upon the survivors. Minds had been poisoned with the sight of comrades tortured and dying. It was a consequence of war, proven immutable many times in the past. Even the best victory was soiled by the shame of those who had survived. It was a duty of life, to bear this guilt and memory and sorrow in the wake of a battle won through the sacrifice of comrades. The fact of its inevitability was not a comfort now, though perhaps one day it would be. A time for mourning would soon be upon them, and already the sad song of loss whispered in the quiet.

Faramir looked up at Éowyn, for his wife had slowed in her actions. Her face was empty and apathetic, but her eyes were distant and sorrowful. She had obviously been considering the same melancholic thoughts that he had. The sight of her bright gaze sullen and forlorn made his heart ache, and he reached up to grasp her hand. She collected her obviously scattered thoughts, focusing upon him. He tried to smile, to offer her some semblance of strength. Her expression softened, the glowing blue of her eyes twinkling as she gently caressed his knuckles with her thumbs. She knew he could not make right the things done to them, but she appeared grateful for his attempts all the same.

There came the sound of swishing skirts beyond the door of this small room. Faramir turned, releasing Éowyn's hand, and looked ahead. At the open portal was Lady Ioreth. The older woman's face was glistening with perspiration, a few wispy strands of graying hair falling loose from a tight bun. She bowed to her lord. "The prisoners are resting easily," she announced calmly, lifting her head again so that she might meet his gaze. "Most will recover." She strolled to the wooden cabinets, quickly returning a few bottles and flasks to their proper place.

Faramir winced as Éowyn tenderly rubbed a bit of salve upon his head wound. The stuff smelled utterly repugnant, but he remained still as his wife dabbed and spread it. Ioreth remained at the cabinets, her back to the steward. Faramir had known this kind woman for a very long time, for she had helped to govern these Houses for many years. She was a great ally to the House of Denethor, gracious and strong, wise in words and sturdy in act. He knew the depths of her compassion. Many times in the past had Boromir and he returned to Minas Tirith with their proverbial tails between their legs, sneaking into the Houses of Healing to have their scrapes and cuts tended without their father ever coming to learn of their latest foolish venture. Denethor had been a stern man, and though Ioreth did not appreciate their recklessness at times, she had never denied them care, clean clothes, and a reassuring hug or pat. Her motherly love for the sons of Denethor had only increased after Finduilas' demise. Faramir trusted her explicitly, for she was great of heart and mind, and her simple perspectives on the most complicated of issues were often calming and helpful.

Something troubled her. Though he did not doubt Ioreth meant to inform him of the prisoners' well being, she was tense with whatever had truly pushed her into seeking his audience. Rarely was the older woman hesitant to speak her mind, and Faramir found himself dreading this obviously important and sensitive topic. The awkward silence continued to dominate for a moment more, but Ioreth finally spoke without his prodding. "We must let him go, my Lord."

Faramir stiffened. Now he understood her trepidation. When he could not bring himself to address her statement, she turned. Her face was calm, stern, and sorrowful. "We cannot bring Prince Legolas back. He is gone. He is dead. We must let him go."

Anger inexplicably consumed him, and he let it. At least fury was more comforting than the emptiness her words promised. "It is not so simple," he muttered, looking away. He shrugged off his wife's soft hands and stood from the chair. His hateful eyes turned to the floor.

Ioreth would not be dissuaded so easily. "It is, Lord. Until we properly mourn him, there can be no closure! This city suffers with his loss, but it is this fruitless hope that the King forces upon us that scrapes raw hearts until they bleed! Do we honor his body, his memory, his love by denying him final rest? Do we honor what remains…"

"Nothing remains, Ioreth," Faramir said softly. The bitterness in his tone made his own voice sound alien to his ears.

Ioreth sighed softly. Her voice was gentle, without heat or reprimand, as she said, "The child remains. We remain." She shook her head as she neared him. Gray eyes shown with only affection and sadness. "She loved him dearly. She considered him her father. Though she knows he is not coming back to her, she does not realize _what_ this means. Her real father was taken prisoner when Cair Andros fell during the War, my Lord. Her mother never let hope that he might one day return fade. We tell her that Prince Legolas has gone some place better, that he will never come home. But we have not shown her that we believe that, or that it is even true. We cannot keep doing this to her or to ourselves."

Faramir turned away his eyes, for they were beginning to sting with tears he did not want to shed. He released a long breath, struggling to maintain his composure. It hurt terribly to admit the truth of Ioreth's words, but his duty bade him to do so. She continued to plead this case, and now her voice was laden with grief and worry. "The King suffers, my Lord. You know as well as I do. He is tearing himself apart with his rage and shame. He is destroying himself with his sorrow. I worry for him. We must do something…"

He hated that this had been placed upon him. He hated himself for his weakness. He hated his hands for what he had failed to save, for the life that had slipped from his very fingers… "I will speak with the King," he declared finally, looking up again and meeting Ioreth's gaze. "And I will speak with the girl, if you will have her brought to me."

Ioreth's relief was visible. Her eyes softened, and her kind face relaxed enough so that the lines of age and worry about her mouth and eyes faded ever so slightly. "I will. Thank you kindly, Lord Faramir." She made a quick bow before stepping outside the room.

Silence came, and it was laden with a desperate wish to take back the oath just sworn. Faramir walked to the washbasin beside the bed, figuring that he needed to clean himself a bit so as not to frighten the child. He dipped his fingers into the cool water and then splashed a bit on his dirty, bloody face. His wife was silent as he wiped the grime away with a towel. When he was finished, he felt a bit cleaner, at least on the outside. Inside, his soul was covered in the muck of guilt and sorrow.

Éowyn lowered her head, turning her deadened eyes to the jar of salve in her hands. Her long fingers replaced the lid on the vessel. The soft thud of the bottom of the glass striking the table was incredibly loud. "You do not need to do this," she said. There was a wistful note in her voice, and he knew it was not for weakness that she wanted him to deny this charge. She knew of his guilt, of his shame. She did not want to see those feelings plague him as they did Aragorn. She did not want to see him suffer.

"I must," he whispered, lifting her chin with his hand. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye, slowly moving down her pale face. "I am the Steward. It is my place to advise the King." She leaned into his touch, her hand coming to rest over his. "And… he was my friend. I will not abandon him again."

His thumb caught her tear. "I miss him," she whispered.

He stepped closer, wrapping his arm about her thin waist and pulling her gently into his chest. "I know. I do, as well."

"I… I feel like we did nothing to help him. We let him suffer and now…"

_There was nothing we could have done._ The words never came to his mouth. They were lies. They were wrong.

There was a knock. Husband and wife parted, both looking to the open door. Ioreth stood there, now with a small form cuddled against her shoulder. The woman spoke softly to the silent child, and Fethra lifted her head. Her wide eyes settled on Éowyn, and her face broke into a joyous smile. "Ehwyn!" Ioreth set the struggling child to the ground, and she immediately sprung towards Éowyn.

The Lady of Ithilien gave a small laugh as she lifted the little girl into her arms. "Fethra," she whispered, and her eyes closed tiredly as she hugged the child tightly to her breast. "I am glad to see you, darling."

Fethra kissed Éowyn's cheek and wrapped her arms around the woman's neck. Éowyn smoothed the girl's messy red hair, smiling at her, cherishing this quiet moment before the storm of sorrow was released to ravage the child's happiness. "Where did you go?" pouted Fethra, her lips protruding with the words, her eyes flashing in the sort of laughable irritation petulant children often display.

Éowyn sat on the bed slowly, settling Fethra into her lap. Faramir watched his wife with the girl and smiled despite his growing trepidation of the coming minutes. Not often in the past had they discussed having children of their own. The prospect both alarmed and intrigued him at once. He had little experience with children, as he was the youngest in his family and Denethor had not been very sociable with other parents or even with their own relatives. He did not know what sort of father he might make, given the opportunity, and to say the idea did not concern him would be quite the lie. He had had a difficult example in his own father. Seeing Éowyn with this child, however, stirred a quiet desire within him, a gentle flame that warmed his heart with paternal love and good intentions. It also made him quake in hurt and rage for this particular child's misery. He had no wish to augment it, but Ioreth was right; it would only hurt her further if she carried hopes that could never come to fruition.

Faramir sat beside his wife, his eyes never leaving Fethra as the child excitedly told Éowyn of the things she had done in the lady's absence. Éowyn nodded at the story, but Faramir knew she was not truly absorbing the girl's words. When Fethra saw Faramir, she abandoned her tale and snuggled closer to Éowyn, her eyes wide and suspicious. The man wondered if she remembered him at all. They had only truly seen each other once, and the child had been hysterical at the time. Éowyn smiled reassuringly at the small form in her lap. "Dear, this is Faramir. He is my husband."

He was silent, not truly knowing what to say to the child. They stared at each other for a moment, wide green eyes on sorrowful gray. For all the horrors to which the poor creature had been exposed, she was still bright with love, life, and innocence. He wondered how many more blows her fragile spirit might be able to sustain. He did not wish to be the one to break it, to take from her whatever of her precious faith remained. He did not want to hurt her.

These fears rendered him mute, his lips slack and his voice lost to him. Fortunately, she spoke. "You were with Leglass," she declared quietly, watching him with unblinking eyes. "You were with him when he got hurt."

Faramir cringed inwardly at her mispronunciation of the Elf's name. Somehow that innocent act made this so much more painful. It seemed almost a term of endearment. "Yes, I was," he said softly.

A long moment of silence came to them. Fethra looked away from him, and all the glowing joy on her rosy face faded with the realization of the gravity of the situation. Faramir breathed deeply, trying to calm himself enough to speak, trying to find the appropriate words. He rehearsed lines, imagined the sounds and feelings, struggling to simply anticipate their impact. Éowyn could not look at him, her fair face pale and troubled. Finally, he simply spoke. "There… are no words I might say to ease this hurt. But I must tell you this." The child still refused to look at him. It was as if he had already spoken the hateful truth. It was as if she already hated him for it. "We… we told you that Legolas had gone away. That he has left for a better place." He rested his hand on her small head as she nuzzled against Éowyn. His throat constricted. Damn this all! "We cannot help him any more. We cannot bring him back. He is dead, Fethra."

She did not speak or move for what seemed to be forever. Faramir could scarcely breathe. His bleeding heart shook for the horrible sound of those words. How could he have so easily said them? He had wanted to sound strong, to offer her his power, his understanding, his love. But the words were too weak, too soft, too pathetic. She would most certainly despise him for this.

"He promised me he'd come back. He promised, Ehwyn," moaned the child into Éowyn's chest. "He told me Elves can't die."

The woman blinked back her own tears as she caressed Fethra's hair lovingly. "We know, dear. Sometimes things happen that nobody can stop or foresee. It hurts, but there is nothing anybody can do to change it. We must be strong and brave."

But the child was sobbing now. "I want Leglass. I want him. He takes care of me. I want Leglass!" She hiccupped, the sound muffled by Éowyn's arms. "He said he'd stop the bad men. He said he wouldn't let them hurt anyone more!"

Faramir was unable to bear the sounds of her agony any longer. Wiping at his watering eyes, he slipped from the bed and came to crouch at his wife's knees. His hands rubbed the little girl's back soothingly. "And they will not," he assured her silently. "He gave his life to stop them. And stop them he _did_. He did."

A quiet emptiness dominated the following moments. Faramir was still with pressing hope, watching the child intently, praying that what he said might be enough to ease her suffering. He wanted so badly to help her, to protect her as Legolas had. To give back some of the hope he just had taken away.

Finally she lifted her head. Teary, red eyes peered at him, hesitantly, wistfully. "Who will take care of me now?" she whispered fearfully.

Éowyn's hand lay atop his as he rested it upon Fethra's head. He felt the warmth of her soft skin, and he knew her strength, her courage. Her love. "We will, Fethra. You are not alone here." The girl inched closer to him. "And you never will be."

What she did then to his pledge was not at all what he expected. She cocked her head and crept out to the absolute edge of Éowyn's knees, nearly toppling from the woman's lap. The Lady of Ithilien steadied the child as she peered at Faramir, her green eyes doubtful and analyzing. For reasons that seemed utterly silly, he felt nervous under her scrutinizing gaze, the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising in anxiety. Then she reached out her hands and rubbed his cheeks.

She giggled then. "You're all furry." Then she grinned, her cheeks wet and her eyes twinkling. "I like you! Furry Faramir! Furry, furry Faramir! Furamir!"

At first, he was somewhat insulted by the remark. Fethra kept chanting that ridiculous name, and he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment and annoyance. There was another voice sniggering, this one a little deeper. He looked up and shot his wife an irritated glare, to which she only smiled and giggled louder. The sound of her merriment eased him, and his awkward humiliation vanished.

He smiled. His own laughter, long choked by anger and anguish into silence, had never sounded so pleasant.

* * *

Given the excitement of the day, the Citadel had grown exceedingly and surprisingly quiet with the coming of night. Faramir darkly marveled at how still and forlorn the once bustling manor was, eyeing the darkening corridors suspiciously. Servants had seemingly retired early, for though the sun had just set and their tasks were completed, they would often remain working and talking of the day's gossip in the halls. As the steward made his way to the small, private meeting room of the King's quarters, he wondered at the tense silence that had claimed his home. He remembered Ioreth's words, wincing inwardly at the implication of the wise woman's worries. Had Aragorn truly spread such wrath and sorrow about his kingdom as to choke the very cheer from his home? It had only been only two days since their departure to Emyn Arnen. Could the situation have deteriorated so rapidly?

Éomer grunted. His hazel eyes darted about the dimly lit halls as they mounted the final set of stairs that would lead them to their destination. "He has made this place dark with his rage," murmured the young king as he glanced around them. Finally his apprehensive eyes settled upon Faramir. "How can we tell him the truth of it?"

Faramir sighed wearily. "He knows already," he answered softly, "whether or not he wishes to admit it to himself."

Éomer did not comment further, although it was clear his mind was running with thoughts and fears. The two lords had met a few minutes prior in the Citadel's courtyard, as Éomer had come seeking his sister and had encountered Éowyn and Faramir as the two returned to the manor. Upon hearing that the steward sought the king's audience, Éomer had requested that he join his brother in his task. Faramir had been dragging his feet for all intents and purposes, for, though he had sent word to Aragorn advising the king of his arrival, the thought of speaking with his lord weighed heavily upon him with doubt, grief, and a bit of trepidation. He had meant to only speak of the events at Emyn Arnen. Though their victory had been absolute and undeniable, there were many issues left unresolved and questions remaining unanswered. However, the addition of this duty to convince the king that it was time to mourn made the other matters seem totally trivial. Few things in life served to upset Faramir into cowardly acts. This prospect of delivering to Aragorn the suggestion of letting go utterly terrified him. _The man is grieving for a friend, for a brother with whom he has shared a friendship longer and deeper than I can understand. What right do I have to demand that he deny his pain, that he move on? I have no such power!_

The thought did not sit well with him, his nerves rattling with the lightning of anxiety. He dreaded facing Aragorn now when his failure was complete. He dreaded the sour taste of the words and the bitter glare that would be their response. He dreaded the anger and guilt and sorrow. He dreaded being helpless to their whims.

_You cannot hide from him anymore than you can hide from the truth. There are matters of business to which you must attend. Think of this alone, and face the moment when it comes!_ "Legolas' death tears this city," Éomer mumured, bowing his eyes as they walked down the dark and silent hall. "His death tears all of Middle Earth." Those words were little more than whispered breaths, but they struck Faramir with the force of a violent gale. The steward winced, feeling tears again threaten. A moment passed in which neither spoke, the silence riddled with disquiet and anguish. Neither wanted to stifle the plaintive cries of yearning hearts. It seemed to do so would be to betray Legolas further. Then Éomer breathed. They had reached the doors to the meeting hall. "Perhaps – "

"Nay, my brother. We can do no more." How treacherous that declaration sounded! The gall he had in saying such a thing! "There was no sign… And even if there was, I would not even know how to try…" The steward's voice failed him, his eyes distant and his heart heavy. "There can be no more hope."

Éomer's face fell, his once hopeful eyes now dark and shining with unwanted wetness. He looked away, as though ashamed at this weakness and at proposing such a thing. Faramir sighed softly, gathering his wits and strength about him. He would be strong, for himself, for Éowyn, for the child. For Legolas. Steady hands grasped the handle of the doors. The metal was cold to the touch. Firmly, he opened them, prepared to meet his king.

Shadows stretched across the meeting room. A fire burned brightly in the hearth at the opposite end, warding away the coming chill of autumn. Golden light flickered across the area, and Faramir saw Gimli seated at the grand table, smoking his pipe with a scowl upon his ruddy face. The last light of day was tiredly stretching through the windows, lethargic in these final hours of duty. It taunted them with the hint of peace, but it would not stay. In a matter of minutes the sun would disappear, and the shadows would return as surely as they did every night.

Gimli turned to face them long after their entrance, as if parting from his thoughts had been a barely surmountable task. The Dwarf pulled his smoldering pipe from his mouth as he stated, "He speaks with the Queen."

Faramir nodded, stepping further inside and taking a seat beside the stout warrior. Éomer closed the door softly before sitting as well. He limped slightly, and Faramir was reminded suddenly that he, too, had been wounded. In the past days Éomer had borne the commanding and confident stature and visage of a king. For the benefit of his men had he hidden his hurts. Now, when he was among friends, when the threat had been abolished, there was no reason to disguise this weakness. _None of us has escaped this unscathed._

"Her misery must be great," mumbled Éomer as he gingerly sank into the plush chair. His eyes were respectfully lowered, his hair limply falling about his bowed face.

Gimli's voice was a deep, bitter rumble. "Aye, she does not wish to betray him with acceptance." His eyes were black and narrowed. "And neither will I."

Faramir winced. _Please, not this…_ He did not wish to counter Gimli's words, for again the relationship broken by Legolas' loss was not his to understand and thus discuss. Éomer, however, did not take well to the thinly veiled accusation in the other's voice. "You act as though it was our fault." His tone was low, his voice seething hurtful venom. "You act as though his blood is upon our hands alone!"

Gimli growled, his eyes flashing murderously, as he glared at the young king. "I will not be party to this," snapped the irate warrior. "I at least tried to stop the fool Elf from fighting that night! I was not the one who failed him, who let him fall! And I am certainly not the one who kills him now with doubt and hopelessness." Faramir flinched, closing his eyes in fury and clenching his hands into fists.

Éomer grunted hotly. "You speak rashly and cruelly. Honestly, Master Dwarf, what would you have us do? We can no more bring Legolas back than we can breathe life into a dead body. He is _gone_." The king turned away his piercing glare, as though suddenly ashamed of what had said, of what he had done. "His loss is upon us each equally. We stood upon that cursed field and watched the sickness devour him. We mindlessly observed the fever consume his eyes, the strength flee his body, the power leave his hands… We all did _nothing_. Do not blame us solely for Legolas' death, Gimli. It is a stain we share."

"Do not think what you say absolves you, Horse-master. Your words are a shallow repentance!"

"A shallow repentance?" Éomer replied, his face broken in hurt and anger. "Do you think I do not regret, Master Dwarf? Do you think I feel no shame, no sorrow? It was I who led that foolish campaign! It was I who insisted the land was feasible for defense! It was I who laid upon him a command when he so clearly suffered a malady! Do you believe me such a monster as to feel not guilt and torment? I wished for nothing more than to somehow save him! I wish…" The king's voice failed him, hitching in his throat, twisting with anguish. Faramir turned away as if struck. Éomer's glazed eyes lost their focus, his mouth limply open as he fought to find words enough to express the depths of his distress. "I only wish that it did not have to end like this."

His whisper hung on the still air, and Gimli's eyes softened. The fiery expression abandoned his face, leaving his eyes suddenly teary and his jaw slack. The Dwarf released a long breath and sank down into his chair. He suddenly seemed very small and weak. Faramir felt something inside him begin to throb. "Gimli, my friend," he said softly, grasping the other on the shoulder. The Dwarf turned to gaze upon him, but his dark eyes were empty of life, empty of heart. "We must let this go." Faramir struggled to keep his voice calm and steady, though inside his spirit was raging against what he meant to do. "There can be no hope now. You saw the wounds. You saw what they did to him. My heart breaks for what I… for my failure. I burn inside at my negligence, at my terrible stupidity, at the crime I have done us all with my shortsightedness. But this cannot go on. We cannot allow it to continue." The Dwarf looked away, agonized by the words. "Help me to speak with Aragorn. Help me to convince him to honor Legolas' death."

"No." But it was not Gimli who spoke this cold word. Faramir turned in his chair, standing quickly, shocked by the sudden interruption. Aragorn stood at the entrance of the room, his face firm, his gray eyes steely. He looked upon Faramir, and the steward felt utterly wretched then for the betrayal he found in his liege's glare.

It was only his vow to Ioreth that drove him now. "My Lord – " he began.

Aragorn stepped closer. "I will not hear your reasons. They will not be good enough."

Anger burned through Faramir. Aragorn's gaze was smoldering, glowing furiously in the dying daylight. His face was dark and menacing. But Faramir would not be so easily dissuaded. He held tight to his cause, to the belief that, as painful as this moment would be, eventually this would bring about healing for Aragorn and all of Minas Tirith. He tried not to realize that these noble intentions were not so pure, that selfishly he yearned for the peace and resolution a memorial might bring him. "Listen to me, Aragorn. You cannot go on like this. It is over."

"It is not!" the man snapped angrily. His eyes were outlined in dark, heavy circles of weariness that suggested many sleepless nights. His face seemed gaunt, hollowed by misery that ailed him like a poison.

Faramir stepped closer and grabbed his lord's arm. "We cannot bring him back! We cannot erase what was done! He is dead." He held Aragorn's gaze, refusing to allow the man's temper to deny his nation what it so sorely needed: closure. "There was nothing you could have done to save him."

"Silence!" roared Aragorn, yanking his arm away from Faramir's grip as though it had suddenly burned him. "You have no right to speak of it! What do you know of it, Faramir, son of Denethor? You have only failed! I asked you to protect him, to bring him back safely! What could you know of what I feel? He sensed this danger. He begged me to believe him, but I refused to listen! He was my friend, my _brother_, and I ignored him! He bore a fate that should have been mine! What could you know of it, Faramir? Do not presume to tell me what is right when you do not understand!"

The room grew quiet. Shock and despair made the air cold and terrible upon the skin. Rage like little he had before experienced burst within Faramir, battering against the walls of his composure, and he found he no longer had the restraint to look upon the fuming king. _What would I know of it, Aragorn, son of Arathorn? More than you can imagine. More than you want to know._ Though the pain from Boromir's death only augmented his turmoil, he did not force it down. Somehow it made him feel stronger, more worthy of this task he had assumed. He resented Aragorn for his arrogance, for his assumptions. _Others suffer beside you. I will make you see it, even if your guilt blinds you!_ "I do understand," he said softly, struggling vehemently to keep the spite from crawling into his voice. A burning fire craved additional fuel, and he was not about to give Aragorn further cause for his rage. He knew well the temperament of the other. Aragorn was wise and strong. Given enough time, he would realize the folly of hastily spoken words.

He found after a moment he had been right. The king's malevolent expression fell away, revealing a tortured spirit searching desperately for comprehension, for absolution. For the comfort of a lost companion. Guilt shone in the king's now teary gaze. "I…" he whispered, faltering. "I am sorry, Faramir. I did not mean…"

"Do not apologize, my Lord," the steward said, shaking his head to the prospect, "but merely hear my words. The nation suffers the grief of _all_ that was lost. We must permit the people a chance to mend. Gondor bleeds, Aragorn. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. Let your hands help your nation."

Aragorn did not respond to Faramir's imploration, but the steward knew his words had reached him. The man's eyes were sullen but not without understanding. The two men held each other's gazes for a moment, neither speaking, neither abandoning the moment to fate or chance. Faramir could see the war within his friend, hope and acceptance battling against each other for supremacy. Emotion swirled in a violent tempest of conflicting feelings and inclinations. Faramir doubted Aragorn would now suddenly come to understand how to best his sorrow. He knew the other could not so simply parse his mess of thought and emotion into controllable and distinct sensations. Such peace was long in coming.

But he finally nodded. It would be enough for now to know Aragorn was at least considering letting Legolas go. Faramir would not press the matter further, no matter its importance. These hours were wrought with exhaustion and dulled euphoria. Aragorn was likely as muddled as he when it came to this night. Victory had come to them, but at such a hefty price that neither delight nor despair could dominate. Exhaustion denied comfort, and idly Faramir knew that, with sleep, things would appear more sensible.

The king wearily took a seat about the polished table. He glanced around, his eyes dulled and almost meek as he scanned the faces of those present. Gimli returned his gaze, and Faramir was relieved that the unbearable tension that had existed between the two friends had at least momentarily abated. Éomer was more reluctant to face the king, though, his gaze centered upon his folded hands as though he had never before seen something so interesting. Silence reigned a moment longer, the fire crackling loudly when they did not speak, the echoes of harsh words and unsaid misery deafening in their emptiness. Then Aragorn lifted his head and sighed, pulling himself from sad thoughts with visibly great effort. "Tell me of Emyn Arnen."

The prospect of business was welcomed, for though it was not as far removed from the topic of war as they might have liked, it something with which cold apathy was possible. Detachment was a convenient shield against the pressing shadow. Éomer cleared his throat softly and managed to summon forth enough courage to talk of the event. "It went smoothly. There was little incident."

_Little incident._ Suddenly Faramir recalled the strange moment he had had with Holis on the road through Ithilien. The recollection brought with it renewed confusion and apprehension, and he questioned again the nature of the occurrence. His eyes grew dazed as he wondered about it, not at all amazed that, given the shock of all that had happened, it had completely slipped his mind. Briefly he wondered about telling Aragorn of the matter. Certainly it was important that the king be aware of the sort of person with which they were dealing. He flushed with shame and anger when he remembered his inability to best Holis at that silly contest of wills. He had surely revealed far too sensitive information, and Aragorn needed to know that their secrecy was compromised.

But he decided not to broach the subject at the moment. Éomer was already speaking of the campaign's success, and in talking of their victory, he had returned a bit of optimism to the beaten group. Also, Faramir was still not certain that his peculiar exchange with Holis amounted to anything substantial. Doubtlessly the man remained an enigma, and as to his intentions, the steward knew no more of them than he did before. Faramir shuddered inwardly at the ghostly recollection of the man's fingers touching his face. If he meant to do them harm, the opportunities had often presented themselves. It seemed he truly meant to aid Gondor in her quest, and yet…

"Faramir?"

He snapped from his thoughts with a physical jerk, turning stunned eyes to Aragorn. The king was watching him, concern flashing in irritated eyes, and Faramir then realized he had not heard the question asked of him. "I am sorry," he murmured apologetically, heat coming to his cheeks. "My mind escaped me."

Aragorn opened his mouth to oblige the steward in repeating the inquiry, but his question was interrupted by a sharp knock to the room's closed door. Looks of confused surprise were shared at the sound. Before any of them could rise and answer the call, the door opened with a whine of the hinges. "My Lord?" came a tentative voice. As the portal opened, a thin, dark-haired Elf appeared. Faramir recognized him to be Legolas' aid, Velathir. The creature's face was calm, his eyes forlorn, as he regarded the lords. "The escorts Lord Valandil dispatched have returned, and Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond Peredhil, are now here to see you."

_Elladan and Elrohir._ Éomer darted a questioning look to Faramir, and the steward only released a long breath in response. He had only once before met the twin sons of Lord Elrond, the brothers of Arwen. He knew little of them aside that they were wise and powerful. For many years had they been the allies of the Northern Dúnedain, and they had accepted young Aragorn in Rivendell upon his parents' passing. After their father's departure from Middle Earth and their sister's marriage to Aragorn, they had opted to remain with the rangers, traveling and aiding the provinces of Arnor. The steward wracked his sluggish brain for more information, but there was nothing more really to be had. Legolas had mentioned the brothers once or twice in the past, mostly in friendly conversation. Long had the Prince of Mirkwood and the sons of Elrond been allied in thought, act, and mischief, it seemed, though Faramir had never heard many of the juicier tales of their past foolery.

Aragorn stood, his question apparently forgotten, his face broken with intense relief. The sudden action yanked Faramir from his thoughts again, and he rose respectfully as the two Eldar entered the small meeting room. They were both very tall and lithe, as was the characteristic of their kind, their dark hair pulled back into warrior's braids. Few could tell them apart easily, for they bore much resemblance to both each other and their father. Even after encountering the two Elves on a few occasions, he still found himself unable to distinguish between the twins. Giving it a second of hard thought, the differentiating points returned to him. Elladan had entered first, and he was the louder of the two, his jaw set a bit more firmly. His face was stern and forbidding when the occasion required such a countenance of him, but he was far from humorless, gifted with a musical laugh and voice. Elrohir's features were somewhat softer. His eyes were a bit lighter, and he lacked his brother's commanding air. His voice was soft and serious, but when he smiled, he most reminded Faramir of the Lady Arwen.

The king stepped to them, eagerly embracing both of his friends. A few words were shared in Elvish, but they had been soft and private, and Faramir had not heard them. On the last occasion he had met these two Elves, much time had been spent in merriment with good food, friends, and wine. The carefree smiles and glowing happiness that had so graced their fair faces were now painfully absent.

Elrohir turned, parting from Aragorn's hug, his bright eyes quickly scanning the room. A horrified look came to his face. "Please, Estel, tell me we are not too late to help," he murmured, aghast of the situation. When his piercing gaze fell to Faramir, the steward felt himself shaking his head numbly. Then the Elf lord dropped his eyes, his shoulders visibly slumping. "Ai, Elbereth… I am sorry… We were far north, and by the time we received your missive…" He trailed off, unable to finish his excuse.

Gimli was suddenly livid. Faramir felt the Dwarf stiffen in rage beside him, and he dropped his hand to the short creature's shoulder to restrain the biting retort he knew to be slipping from the other's sharp tongue. The man felt his companion growl, the rumble vibrating his fingers slightly.

Elladan was less ready to accept the truth of it, it seemed, for though his face was stoic and his elegant body was still, Faramir saw the anger flit across his eyes. "And you tried everything? There is not something we still might – "

A forlorn gesture from Aragorn ended the fruitless statement. The king shook his head. He had lost some of his strength in the face of his close friends, his composure crumbling with the need for consolation. He wavered slightly on his feet, leaning against the table as he turned his face away. Silence came over them, thick and tense, and then Aragorn slammed his fist loudly into the table. It seemed to rattle the very room. Whispered words fled his lips, and though his back was to him, Faramir understood the Elvish this time. "This is worth nothing without you!"

Elladan's voice resounded again, frantic with the need to refute, with the hope to deny. "How can this be possible? The Easterlings were no match for Gondor! The Dúnedain knew of no such threat, and surely they would have had some knowledge of a force so strong and potent." The Elf was fiery, the calm fading as he warred with the reality of the terrible news. "I refuse to accept this! They could not have done this to him, to you!"

Éomer's face was the picture of malice, his scowl dark and threatening. "They did," he hissed furiously. "They murdered and maimed. They raped and pillaged. They were a cunning lot, but we have seen to their destruction." The young king turned eyes to Faramir, seeking a proud confirmation. "We tricked them at Emyn Arnen. Long had they used their devilry against us, but we plotted a ruse there, and they fell into our trap."

Something suddenly occurred to Faramir. Like the altercation with Holis, this had previously been ignored, sacrificed by attention for more pressing matters. The mention of plots and ploys dragged forth the question from the recesses of his cluttered mind, and cold anxiety claimed his body. "Gimli," he said quietly, "do you remember that tunnel beneath Emyn Arnen? It began in a wine cellar and stretched some half a league west of the manor. You told me of it a few months ago."

The nature of the soft question stunned the once raging room into an awkward silence. The Dwarf's brow was furrowed in confusion, his eyes quizzical. "Aye," he answered, shaking his head slightly. "What of it?"

The pieces were coming together. The mists of exhaustion, euphoria, and despair parted, and something came through the pall with screaming insistence. Faramir grabbed at it blindly, not overly certain of what it was but knowing beyond a doubt that it was imperative. "That was how the Easterlings breached the compound. That was how they invaded. We expelled their attack and mounted an offense upon their camp only because I remembered what you had said of it." The daze broke, and his eyes suddenly became frantic. "Only you knew of it?"

The words were harsh with pressing urgency and importance. The Dwarf nearly stumbled over his response. "Nay," Gimli murmured, his puzzled eyes searching Faramir for comprehension. "Legolas knew of it. He saw it, in fact. He and his aide assisted me in catalog…"

His aide.

_Velathir._

Faramir's heart stopped as he looked up, shock and horror washing him cold like ice water. In its wake, rage followed like a wildfire, consuming in a shaking breath, and he turned glaring, narrowed eyes upon the villain. Velathir froze from where he stood aside from the door, the color draining from an already pale face. The Elf bolted.

But Aragorn was faster. He was at the door before the other had even touched it, slamming shut the slab and standing protectively in front of it. He turned violent eyes upon Velathir, his form stiff and tense. Perhaps there was still a shred of hesitation, of hope that what had just come to light had not been true. This tiny wish that such an atrocity could not be possible drove Aragorn in questioning. The king's voice was even, but it was clear only great effort allowed it to be so. "Speak, Velathir, and do so quickly and truthfully." Aragorn shook his head in disbelief. "Tell me that an Elf has not betrayed us."

Velathir stood absolutely still. His face was apathetic, and he did not appear to even breathe as Aragorn's scrutinizing glare bore into him. "I have done no such thing," he declared in a cool voice. Faramir was quite surprised at the Elf's sudden gall. He had always struck the steward as a rather weak specimen, void of emotion and lacking of courage. Quiet and pristine, he had seemed a meek creature. He would have never thought to question the loyalty of this Elf.

Aragorn did more than doubt his allegiance, though. The king had no patience for lies, for he grabbed the Elf's blue jerkin and shoved him roughly against the wall. He resembled more a wraith, lusting for the sweetness of vengeance, as his fists tangled tightly in the fabric. Velathir struck the wall with a thud, the aide's slender hands coming to grab Aragorn's as the merciless king pushed him tightly against the surface. "The truth, Velathir! I will have it now!"

The first flicker of fear shown in the Elf's eyes, for Aragorn was more a fuming monster than a man at that moment. Hesitation and fright rendered Velathir mute for another terribly long moment, and Aragorn's temper denied the king any restraint. Faramir winced as Velathir was slammed again into the wall, and the steward stepped forward quickly, thinking to stop Aragorn in this rancorous abuse. Gimli was quick to grab his arm and hold him back.

The third jostling of the Elf resulted in an article falling loose from the folds of Velathir's tunic. It glinted brightly for a split second as it tumbled. Then it struck the stone floor with a clank and a loud shatter.

Silence.

Velathir blanched. He was terrified.

Aragorn watched Velathir's pale, quivering face, his own expression softening in confusion. With seemingly great effort, he released his crushing grip upon the Elf's tunic. The king crouched. The table obstructed Faramir's view, and the ranger glanced at Éomer in the moment, wondering frantically if the other had a better understanding of what was happening. The young King of Rohan, however, was taut with anger and alarm. Elladan and Elrohir watched, each ashen at observing both the fact of this Elf's apparent duplicity and Aragorn's ire.

Glass tinkled. Aragorn rose slowly, lifting with him the remains of what appeared to be a small vial. He held the bottom half carefully between his forefinger and thumb, raising it into the light of the fireplace. Faramir squinted, trying to make sense of the object, bewildered at its purpose. Black liquid dribbled from the jagged edge, tumbling drop by drop into the shadows about the floor. It glowed hideously in the yellow illumination. Menacingly. Violently.

The king fingered the dark substance, his eyes narrowed, his face locked in an expression of confusion. Slowly the tense look became one of shock and horror. Aragorn's breath hitched audibly in his throat as he shuddered, his mouth coming to hang open limply. Tears filled the king's eyes as he looked up, blankly staring at Faramir. The steward shook his head, desperate to understand but finding no words to ask the question.

The glass slipped from Aragorn's fingers and smashed against the floor again.

Gimli could bear it no longer. "What? What is it?"

Short gasps filled the air, pulsing with hysteria. Aragorn's eyes were wide with anguish, his composure utterly shattered, his body visibly quivering with rage. Faramir's mind was slothful given his own alarm and ire. As if suddenly struck, the steward choked on his breath. His face grew ashen, glistening in an abrupt cold sweat, and he nearly doubled-over. His heart stopped. His mind halted. His breath came no more.

He understood. For the love of everything good, he understood!

"You monster!" howled Aragorn. The king broke from his stupor and rounded on Velathir. The man let loose a keening wail as he struck the terrified Elf, and Velathir stumbled along the wall, falling under the assault. "You vile monster! You… How could you? _How could you?_"

There was nothing beyond this moment, this confrontation. If any motivation to aid either party entered his stunned mind, it never reached his heavy, limp legs. His body was alien and unresponsive, and he stood, completely paralyzed by the feeling of black, reeking mud covering his useless form. He watched as Aragorn growled inhumanly, reaching down and yanking up the terrified Elf by his tunic once more. He had never seen his friend so utterly violent, so hateful. He seemed more a demon twisted and tormented than anything.

Aragorn shoved Velathir against the wall roughly and wrapped his large hand about the pale column of the Elf's neck. He was applying just enough pressure to threaten, not enough to choke, strangle, or prevent speech. "He was your lord, your leader. He was your friend! How dare you betray him like this?" Velathir's previously dispassionate eyes were now wide and frantic. He was fearful for his life, and that concern was probably not without reason. Faramir wondered just how much longer Aragorn's breaking restraint would last. "You _will_ tell me, or I will make you regret it!"

The pure hate seeping from that hissed threat was enough to loosen Velathir's lips, and the Elf began to stammer the truth. Each word stabbed into Faramir until the man thought he could take no more. "I did not mean to hurt him! You must believe me. I never meant to hurt him! I did not know it would come to this… please, know that and have pity upon me!"

Aragorn's fingers tightened cruelly, and Velathir gagged, his long face grimacing with the restriction upon his airway. "Why?" rasped the king.

Quivering in a desperate need for escape, the Elf babbled, the statements coming faster and faster from his lips, slurring together with his panic. "He was defying our fate! He was changing what should not be changed! Our kind was meant to leave these shores, to travel to our rightful place in Valinor… and he forsook that for… for… for you! And a Dwarf! What gave him the right to make such a choice for all the Firstborn? He had no power to dictate our future! He took it upon us all to reconstruct a world that did not belong to us, and in doing so he denied us our blessed destiny!"

_Ai, no… This is not true. Please, make this not true!_ Éomer's voice was hindered by short, fast breaths. "Are you implying that you betrayed us because Prince Legolas formed the colony?"

Velathir glanced to the King of Rohan, his eyes wide and watering. "They approached me. They said no harm would come to him, and that, in the end, if I aided, he would despise this hateful world and finally succumb to the sea-longing. Without him, the colony would fall apart! My kin would finally see reason to leave, and there would be peace…" The frantic Elf turned his eyes upon Aragorn again, the blue orbs shining with fearful tears. His long fingers were wrapped around the king's tight hands as he struggled to wriggle free. "Please, my Lord, you must believe that I never knew he would – "

But Aragorn would not be so easily placated. "Never knew?" he interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. "How could you not? You poisoned him! For how long did you torture him? Days?" Velathir was silent with his fear. _"Weeks?"_ Aragorn bellowed, tears building in his flaring eyes with the thought of it. Faramir nearly turned away, unable to stand this torment, unable to bear the depths of this treachery. It reached into his soul and scraped and ripped, leaving him shaking with fury and misery. _How could this have happened? How could we have let this happen?_

"You were the reason he could not sleep! You were the nightmare that stole his rest, that twisted his dreams into torment, that forced upon him…" Aragorn's tone faltered, and the king nearly choked on a sob. "You drugged his food, did you not? He bled because of that toxin! He suffered because of what you did! He dreamed…" The king shook his head and released a keening wail of fury. "You lie to me! You knew! How could you not have seen the sickness you put upon him? You were the reason he fell! You might as well have brought him down yourself, you bloody murderer! Monster! _Demon!_"

Flesh struck flesh with a loud crack, and then Velathir was sprawled against the table. The structure shook with the impact. There was the singing of metal, and a glint shone viciously in the golden light. Aragorn brandished the dagger he had drawn from his boot like it might make right this terrible wrong, like it could somehow restore justice. As thought blood would ease his pain. The sight of the king rounding on the hapless Elf broke Faramir from his stupor. Aragorn pinned Velathir to the tabletop, and the knife sang a melody of murder as it slashed down.

Faramir shouted, "No!" He acted without thinking, springing forth with energy he thought lost to his leaden body. Reflexes snapped, and he grabbed Aragorn's wrist and yanked back with every bit of his strength, digging his heels into the floor for balance. The knife screamed, blinding and brutal.

All was still.

The sharp tip of the deadly blade hovered above Velathir's gasping neck. Aragorn's jaw clenched and unclenched as he watched the glinting edge hover. His hand shook with the restraining hold of Faramir's fingers wrapped tightly about his wrist. The steward gasped, struggling to calm his racing heart, disbelief and relief leaving him shaken and weakened. The fury abated in Aragorn's eyes, he saw, as that long, torturous minute escaped them. They remained as such a moment more, the knife nearly grazing the Elf's vital flesh. Velathir whispered fearfully, "You would kill a Firstborn, my King?"

Rage could not bolster the cold fact of it. Aragorn slowly leaned back, his steely eyes never leaving Velathir's tear-stricken face. Faramir pulled away, watching his friend doubtfully, wondering at the thoughts stampeding through the other's mind. "You are an Elf no more," stated Aragorn icily after a painful pause. The blade dropped to the king's side and he looked away. "Even so, I will not kill you. You will be made to pay. Death is too lenient a punishment for your crimes against your people!"

Velathir's eyes widened, and he opened shaking lips as if to speak further. Aragorn, however, was beyond listening. Faramir watched as he turned to door. Guards had come, though he had not noticed in the disastrous events, and they now stood, stupefied and bewildered. "Take this wretch to the dungeon. He will remain there until I decide what is to be done with him. Make sure he is not harmed."

Faramir could scarcely breathe his heart rushed so frantically in relief. His skin felt cold, and sweat clung to his scalp. He could not imagine the future that would have been made of Aragorn's murder of the Elf. He shuddered. He did not want to. The king would have forever hated himself for an act made in a fit of fury and grief. The blood could have never been washed from his hands. Vengeance would not have been cause enough.

The guards came in, finally freeing themselves from their dumb stares. They grabbed the arms of the treacherous Elf and hauled him less than gently from the table. Velathir stumbled as they led him from the room, his head hung shamefully and fearfully as if at any moment he expected Aragorn to change his mind over the sparing of his life. Faramir glared upon the traitor as he was pulled out the door. _Legolas… If I had only known! If I had only seen this before!_

In the wake they stood. Each was stiff and still, burdened by this knowledge, crushed by the reality of what had truly happened. Silence devoured what remained of their elation, committing them to an endless eternity of suffering, of doubt. There would never be acceptance. There would never be absolution.

The knife slipped from Aragorn's hand and struck the floor with a heavy clang. He turned, his face lowered, his form dark and malignant. A single tear escaped his cold eyes, snaking its way down his face. Not a word was said. Not a breath was heard. Offering his friends nothing, the king turned and left.

Faramir stood still a long time. There might have been action around him, but he could not hear. He could not see. He was so traumatized that suddenly one thought was the only viable action. _I must escape. I must sleep._

Perhaps tomorrow would yield closure. Perhaps the sun would drive back the shadows again. Whether or not such a thing was possible, he did not know. He was not sure of anything anymore, save that something pure had died. Something had changed, and it could not be brought back to the way it had been.

Indeed, it was over.


	23. From the Ashes

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)

**PERCHANCE TO DREAM**

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: FROM THE ASHES**

The morning was bright, but the afternoon threatened foul weather. There was no sign of it now, but Faramir had an intimation of a cold, windy deluge. Cool breezes pushed through the open windows, caressing his skin with icy fingers. The air hung heavily about him, smelling crisp and distinctly of rain, and he watched the sky doubtfully. After trudging in a freezing downpour through Ithilien a few days ago, he had no desire to experience another drenching torrent.

"I hate rain." The disdainful grumble came from beside him. Éomer's eyes were narrowed contemptuously; it was evident that he as well was remembering the unpleasant journey to Emyn Arnen. The young man paused for a moment, and then sighed. "Perhaps it will come this eve and spare the afternoon's events." Despite the seriousness of the moment, Faramir smiled. It was hardly as if a little rain would not better set the mood for the activities that day.

The two lords stood in the busy corridors of the king's quarters. Where they were, in a small, lushly furnished antechamber in which their liege typically greeted early guests and attendants, they were generally safe from the bustle about them. Only two days had passed since their victory, and in that time it seemed to Faramir too much and yet too little had happened. Gondor's recovery was gradually quickening, the nation rising from the pall of despair to regain its lost pride and dignity. Its guard was not completely abandoned, though the chance of further attack seemed more remote with each hour spent in safety. Although Fallax cared little for leniency, it had been granted to him as an incentive for truthful information. It seemed the Easterlings had suffered heavier losses than Gondor had originally anticipated at Emyn Nimsîr. Their ill-fated attack on Emyn Arnen had been a desperate strike. Apparently they had assumed Gondor would not dare strike at them, given their significant defeat at Emyn Nimsîr. This had been the fundamental error in the Easterlings' reasoning, and Faramir had been glad to learn that Gimli's somewhat rash logic had indeed proven to be true.

However, they had managed to extract little more than this from the obstinate man. The motives of their enemy remained a mystery, though it was the general consensus among the lords and common folk alike that they had only wished to see Gondor's destruction. Ancient hatreds and festering prejudices died hard. Though such a rationale was hardly comforting or even satisfying, it would have to suffice. Their prisoners offered nothing else. In the peace of the Fourth Age, when war had thankfully become a distant memory, such reckless and barbaric mindsets were an unwanted threat. If nothing else, these last few painful weeks had been haunting reminders that nothing was sacred and even the most pleasant of utopias could morph quickly from a tranquil paradise into a terrible and horrific nightmare. It was a frightening affirmation of evil's continued perseverance despite all they had done to destroy it.

Pondering such doubts was a task better left to stronger times when morale could withstand depressing epiphanies. Though the now busy city streets still hummed and buzzed with rumor, gossip, and much relieved talk, hope had came back to the denizens of the White City. Their faith in their lords had not failed them. Their nation had remained strong and good. Minas Tirith, the heart of Gondor, had not been touched.

The Southron army, its size savagely reduced, had retreated further from the city proper. Under Holis' direction, the men had shifted their camp farther east in the fields, their red banners still flying proud and high over the Pelennor. It might have once been disturbing to see such a large army stationed so closely to Minas Tirith, but days of their presence had dulled the grotesque peculiarity of it. Though a certain amount of distrust still hovered over the houses, the people had generally begun to accept the proximity of the Haradrim. Should the Easterlings that remained free unwisely choose to attack the White City, Holis had assured them that his forces would be the blockade about the area through which the attackers would need to pass. Regardless of the man's enigmatic disposition, his word had thus far proved true and noble. He had done what he had promised. He had helped protect Gondor.

And it was this terrible paradox that plagued Faramir now as it had for the past days. The weary steward had tried to keep such worries from his head, concentrating on idle tasks to divert his attention from matters that distressed him. There was business with which he contended, of course, the simple issues whose care was often a requirement for a man of his station. He had seen to his people; the refugees from Ithilien, both man and Elf alike, crowded the inns and boarding houses of Minas Tirith. The keepers had been instructed to allow these people to stay without charge, and most, seeing the state of emergency brought by war, agreed easily enough. His people were worried but well, and they had looked to him for assurance that they would soon be able to return to their homes. Faramir was reluctant to permit them the journey to Emyn Arnen until they could be absolutely certain the Easterlings would not again make victims of unsuspecting innocents. Perhaps this was a thought borne from paranoia, as there was no indication they had the strength to even imagine such an attack. Still, they had proven to be clever and deceitful before, and Faramir was not willing to take such a chance.

The Elves, of course, were the most destroyed of them all. They were now without a leader, and though they were stoic and proud creatures, Faramir knew the loss of Legolas had struck them harder than any saw. The Elf prince had once told him many days ago that he hardly counted himself a puissant lord, but it was clear now that his people considered him that and more. They had revered him as a prince and as a hero. He had been their strength, their focus in Middle Earth, their friend. Without him, they were lost, and Faramir's heart throbbed for their anguish. More distressing yet was the news of Velathir's apparent duplicity. It had shocked the entire colony that one of their own, friend to some, family to others, could do such a terrible thing as betray their beloved lord. The shock alone had been brutal. As to their leadership, the vacant position had yet to be filled. None seemed willing to assume a title that did not belong to him. The colony had readily followed the undeclared lead of Valandil, and Faramir immediately understood why. The young warrior from Rivendell was compassionate and strong. At Cair Andros, Emyn Nimsîr, and Emyn Arnen he had proven himself most worthy of esteem. He was not Legolas, and he did not try to be. Faramir noted the sadness about the Elf. The remains of a hopeful friendship lay in bleeding tatters about him. It was more than obvious Valandil had idolized Legolas. He was symbolic of the colony's shattered dreams, of their dying intentions. They had never dreamt their lord could be taken from them. Legolas had survived so many battles. Despite his youth, his skills in war craft were unmatched, legendary. To their reeling minds, this terrible torture was but a nightmare that was only now showing itself to be dreadfully true.

The Firstborn walked as ghosts. The appearance of Elladan and Elrohir had both heartened and discouraged them. Though Aragorn had not said as much, the sons of Elrond assumed a position of authority over the beaten colony. Neither of them seemed overly thrilled with the prospect. They had mentioned to Faramir that it felt like they were staining Legolas' memory by assuming a role not meant for them, as though they were pushing the Elves onward and denying them time to grieve their lost lord. Faramir sympathized with their fears. It was no easy task to fill a station made vacant by the sudden death of a loved one.

Such things aside, he had done all he could to assure the Elves their comfort. Minas Tirith was crowded and congested with people and activity. Not only had the population size increased dramatically in the years since the War of the Ring, housed as well within the walls of the city were soldiers from all over Gondor. There were hundreds of troops from Dol Amroth, the Riders of Rohan, the Elves of Ithilien, refugees from Emyn Arnen… even a legion of Dwarven warriors from the Glittering Caves. The city was crowded with creatures of all races and creeds, filled with beings serving a common cause: protecting the nation of men. While the sheer size of the force that had come together for the sake of the nation was amazing and inspiring, it was not without its drawbacks. There was no shortage of food, for Minas Tirith was quite prosperous, her agriculture made strong by bountiful lands and prolific farmers. Housing, however, was a different matter. The barracks for Minas Tirith's now swollen army were well beyond their capacity. Moreover, though there was enough sustenance for their many guests, finding means to ensure that all were properly fed was not so simple.

These were the sorts of tasks with which Faramir had busied himself over the last days. Hardly paramount, the mundane chores were suitable to divert his attention, to consume his mind and hands so that neither was left to idle action or contemplation. Pondering his doubts, fears, and anger left him terribly tormented, and he was tired of not being able to answer the crucial questions posed by his thoughts. Though he thought this reason alone terribly selfish, there were other points in his involvement in routine problems and work. Most prevalent and disturbing of these was, of course, Aragorn's seclusion. For two days since the company's triumphant return from Emyn Arnen, the king had not left his quarters. Silence replaced strength, and the tension placed upon the Citadel by Aragorn's unvoiced grief and fury was twisting whatever remained of its peace. It was a chilling sensation, for the air verily closed about the body, bending and pulling as though at any moment it might simply snap. Tenuous was the serenity, their hopes thin and emaciated. Their lord's absence was striking and powerful, and each man, from the lowest servant to the highest courtier, understood the sorrow and malice that permeated their home.

Though Faramir had been extremely worried over Aragorn's isolation, he had not been able to find it within himself to face his king again after that horrid night. In truth, the nation needed its leader. He should not have allowed Aragorn to continue such behavior as long as he had, but he had been unwilling to intercede with such lame reasons as responsibility and honor. Duty paled in comparison with the depths of the king's misery, and that anguish was something with which Faramir had not wished to contend. He had spent the last days concerned over the deteriorating situation, afraid for Gondor, afraid for Aragorn, afraid for what this could become if his friend could not surmount this loss.

Thankfully, Aragorn had emerged of his own accord. He had appeared last night during dinner, assuming his recently vacant place at the head of the long, shining table after helping his queen to her chair. A collective sigh of relief and amazement had resounded throughout the gathering at seeing their lord. The king had appeared haggard and worn, hardly resembling at all the violent wrath that had nearly murdered. The joy Faramir had felt at seeing his comrade free himself from his grief had faded quickly, though, when Aragorn had begun to speak. _"The peace treaty will be ratified on the morrow. We will remember those of Cair Andros and Linhir whose lives were savagely ended. As well will we honor all, man and Elf, who died protecting our nation. Let us invite the Haradrim into our home to partake in this celebration. See that all the necessary preparations are made."_ Aragorn had sighed and looked down, as if struggling to maintain his resolve. _"If this is to be an era of peace between our two nations, let us begin it by mourning our heroes together."_ He had spoke no more of the matter after that, and the subject, whether from shock, anger, or doubt, was not again broached. Faramir had sat silently for the remainder of the meal, his thoughts dark and distressing. One pressing worry had simply been traded for another.

That night he had spoken to Éowyn of the matter of Holis' true identity. He was not a man generally given to seeking the advice of others, but he found he simply could not decide the best course of action. His logic was muddled by much emotion, and the knowledge he had so vehemently wished might never become important he could no longer bear to keep silent. His wife had held him as he had spoke of the perturbing exchange between himself and the emperor. She had remained quiet, reserving any judgment, until he had completely finished his unnerving tale. And when he had been done, she had only asked him to not let his shame hamper his duty. These facts were too important for Aragorn not to know them and account for them in his plans. Most reassuring of all, though, was the fact that she did not think less of him for his foolery in participating in Holis' silly contest. That alone had been enough to grant him strength to face his king.

So now he waited. He had risen with the dawn, sleeping little during the course of the night as torn as he was with conflicting thoughts and fears. Dressing quickly, he had left his slumbering wife in bed and seen to his morning duties. Then he had raced to the king's quarters, hoping to speak with Aragorn before any further decisions regarding this treaty were made.

Éomer sighed again. "I do not like this day," commented the king lowly. Faramir glanced to the younger man out of the corner of his eye, wondering at Éomer's rather grumpy mood this morning. Surely it was early, and of late few in Minas Tirith had been of a consistently pleasant disposition. Since he had encountered the other that morning in the courtyard, which was being cleaned and adorned for the day's events, Éomer had done naught but complain. _Perhaps he feels as ill about this whole mess as I do._ The young king's eyes were narrowed, his arms folded sternly across his broad chest. "There is more to this than we can see, Faramir. I am sure of it."

The steward had not told his brother-in-law of Holis' words, though not for lack of trust had he made this decision. Despite their interrogation of Fallax, they had not been able to ascertain if spies still lurked about Minas Tirith. The information was far too sensitive to be overheard in a sloppy conversation. Furthermore, he wanted Aragorn's opinion of it first. He knew Éowyn would not speak of their private talk the night before with anyone. Éomer, though, was king, and he had obligations to his own people that outweighed those he held to Gondor's. "I as well am uneasy," he stated simply, wishing not to allude to the true nature of his unrest.

Éomer shook his head, his eyes narrowed and distant with reflection. "That Elf's story does not make sense," said the man disdainfully. "I spoke to Lord Valandil of the matter, and he was frankly surprised. Yet he could not tell me truly that it was implausible that this Elf would do such a thing. Velathir's kin remain in Middle Earth despite his wishes. He plainly believes that removing Legolas would remove the colony's pillar of support, its very foundation. Without him, the Elves would scatter, and many would heed the call of the sea and leave these shores."

"The Easterlings took advantage of that belief," Faramir commented softly, surprised by the calm detachment in his tone. "I doubt there was more to his involvement than that. He was a pawn in their plan, a convenient weakness they exploited. The greater question is why."

Éomer looked to him, raising an eyebrow. "To kill Legolas?"

"Surely. But for what purpose?" Faramir shook his head, turning the problem about once more but finding no loose threads with which he might unravel the tangled knot. "What danger could the Elves have posed to them? Surely striking at you or me would have been a more profitable venture. The fall of either of us would have been a serious blow to Gondor and Rohan. Though the Elves are invaluable fighters and allies, they do not boast the numbers to be a major threat. Why plot so meticulously to rid them of their leader? Do not forget that Velathir had been poisoning Legolas for many days before Cair Andros was even attacked."

Éomer's eyes widened. "Do you suppose," he began in a hushed, rushed whisper, "that they really attacked Emyn Nimsîr to fell him?"

To say the idea had not occurred to him and had not been occurring to him since they had lost Legolas would have been a lie. At the council a few days ago he had proposed as much. Now he was certain of it. Faramir released a slow breath as again the prospect spun about his riled, tired head. Since learning of the extent of the Easterlings' cunning, he had wondered anew at the purpose of their attack upon Emyn Nimsîr. The battle had served no strategic purpose, and they had left the town unharmed after Gondor had retreated. The enemy had suffered far too great a loss to consider the skirmish a victory. The only thing, in fact, that they _had_ succeeded in doing was bringing Legolas down. Aragorn had conjectured days after that they had perhaps assumed the king would join the war party, and thus the trap would have been set to ensnare and murder him. But Faramir could not believe that logic, despite its promising sense. Everything had been done with a purpose. That fact was more than obvious from Velathir's tale. He could not imagine that their opponents would risk such a horrific loss on a hunch that the King of Gondor _might_ join the campaign. They were too smart for that. Too careful.

_It was all done to destroy Legolas. They plotted to kill him weeks, perhaps even months, before they committed the foul deed._ Despite his disgust and anger over this awful fact, he could not for all the want of his heart convince himself otherwise. Even that boy, the dying soldier from Linhir… The memory was hazy, for his pain and sickness at that time had been great, but he remembered the frightening and violent gaze of the mutilated prisoner starkly. Those delving eyes had been dull with delirium and agony, slipping into the haze of death, until Legolas had arrived. Then frenzy had come to them, almost a panic. A dying breath had been spent to warn the Elf of… of what? _"They can see." What do they see?_ Perhaps… Perhaps it was not what they could see, but what Legolas saw. _Or would have seen. But what could that have possibly been?_

The steward sighed tiredly. He grew frustrated with these unanswerable questions. Nothing made sense! "I do not know, Éomer. I fear we never might." He did not like the ugly note of defeat in his voice, but he was too worn and confused to mask it with false courage and understanding. "It seems this war has decided to end without yielding us any answers."

Such finality did not sit well with him, the words tasting bitter and cold as he muttered them. Clearly Éomer did not care for it either, as his face was dark and malevolent, frustration and denial glowing hotly in his eyes. What could there be but this insistent refusal of reality? Desperate minds were left to wonder, and frantic, screaming hearts were starved of resolution, of rest. How could they simply accept that they might never understand the reasons behind their friend's death? How could they simply continue and never know why he had been so cruelly taken from them? Faramir was a man of thought and reasoning. He could not stand the prospect of just letting this mystery go unsolved, of living on hampered by their inability to find the truth. Not knowing the reality of it all, no matter how distressing or gruesome, seemed to dishonor Legolas somehow.

There came a voice from behind them. "My Lord Steward?" It was one of Aragorn's servants holding the lavish doors to the inner rooms ajar. "The king will see you now."

Faramir's heart suddenly pulsed in a nervous patter and for a moment his breath would not come. When he regained his faulty composure, he chastised himself for the childish lapse and prayed the weakness had not come to his face. Thankfully, Éomer had not seemed to notice his pallor. His companion grasped his shoulder fondly and parted with a curt nod. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Faramir stood tall and strong as he followed the servant into the chambers.

It was light and airy inside the large room. The doors to the balconies were opened widely to permit the fresh morning breezes entrance. It heartened Faramir. He had expected shadows and sorrow to mark the interior, or at least an atmosphere more fitting for mourning. Perhaps the situation was not as dire as he had originally anticipated.

The Lady Arwen awaited his arrival. She stood in the small antechamber, and the sunlight set her aglow with vibrant beauty. She wore a blue gown of simple design, though upon her slender, enchanting body the simple velvet was made most elegant and regal. Her dark hair was pinned in an elaborate design of braids and curls. Her face was pale and fair, as was characteristic of her kind, and her eyes were a calming, clear blue. Though she appeared entirely placid and peaceful, Faramir could see the hints of weariness about her mouth and upon her brow, and those brilliant orbs were dulled by sorrow.

He bowed to her. "My Queen," he said softly, lowering his eyes respectfully. He was hardly her confidant, and she exuded such a powerful air of gentle control, of tender supremacy, that he found himself often feeling unworthy of gracing her presence. She was ethereal, made of magic and mystery that was beyond him. She was different from other Elves, it seemed, stronger in her essential nature. Only through time and trust had he become acclimated to Legolas' potent aura, and he found that, as Gimli and Aragorn had often expressed, it was easy then to forget that their dear friend was Elf-kind. _Had been._ He winced.

She smiled weakly. "Good morning, Lord Faramir. The King finishes presently."

They were silent. He looked upon her, wondering at her equanimity. Questions churned in his head, and though he wondered at the decency in addressing these concerns, he found he could not stifle them. "How does he fare?"

Arwen's smile slipped from her face, and her eyes swam in a flash of tears. She offered to Faramir her hand, and he took it slowly. Her skin was smooth and soft beneath his coarse fingers, without even the smallest imperfection. "He fares as we all do. Death… is a terrible torture to one never meant to experience it."

Faramir's heart throbbed at the pain in her words. "I am sorry, my Lady," he said quietly, averting his eyes at the sight of such grief.

She squeezed his hand gently. "Do not apologize. He was my friend as much as he was yours," she declared.

He gave a tiny, rueful grin. "With all due respect, my Lady, that is not true. You lessen your loss by equating it to mine. My relationship with Legolas was but a moment in his life."

Arwen's face grew pale and for a moment the steward believed she might weep. She turned from him then, stepping back into the room with a soft swish of her skirts. Faramir watched the great mass of her hair shift and quiver as she sighed quietly, lowering her head. "My lord suffers, Faramir. He suffers a terrible torment. He and Legolas shared a bond unlike any I had ever before witnessed between a man and an Elf. For many years they acted the brother of one another. They braved many perils together, growing stronger in devotion and affection. To lose Legolas now has crushed him."

Faramir said nothing, aching inside for the friendships destroyed. How cruel war was to create and destroy friendships without regard to the lives left in shambles! The queen's voice was a mere whisper that shook slightly with the force of emotions stifled. "He blames himself for Legolas' fall. He has made mistakes. He ignored warnings given him and dismissed doubt for the sake of duty." Confusion claimed Faramir at this. He had heard no such cautions. Surely if they had been serious concerns Aragorn would have told him. But he did not ask her of the matter. Clearly, whatever had transpired between Aragorn and Arwen was a personal matter, and it was no right of his to intrude upon their privacy.

Arwen spoke again. Her voice was weak, shaking with anguish that she had obviously restrained for the benefit of her distraught husband. "We cannot judge him, for he already passes a terrible verdict upon himself. He believes he has failed his nation, but even more, that he has failed his friends. He believes himself responsible for this war, and nothing I can say will prove to him otherwise." She turned to face him. He expected to see her pale cheeks damp with her misery, but she remained tearless. He could not help but admire her will. She truly was an amazing creature. "I love him dearly, Faramir. I cannot stand to see his guilt destroy him. It tears at him from within, ripping asunder his objectivity, his strength, his very spirit. I… I feel he shall become a slave to its furious whims." She stepped closer to him, her eyes wide and softly imploring. She seemed to stare into his very soul, as though his flesh and blood were transparent substances. She could understand even the most hidden parts of him with a simple observation. While it was unnerving, it was also endearing and somehow pleasant to be held so high in her regard. "Please… you must be at his side. You must guide him now. He falters under the burdens of his rage and sorrow, and he cannot carry as well the weight of leadership. Help him, Faramir. He will not ask for your aid, but I fear… I fear what may become of our nation should you not offer it."

Her wish surprised him, but he did not doubt its veracity or importance. The depthless blue of her eyes was shining brightly, speaking loudly of her terror, of her desperation. It was in that moment that Faramir realized the situation was far grimmer than he had originally feared. He took a slow breath to steady himself. _She asks this of me because I am the Steward. I am his friend. I must protect him._ He took her hands. "I am fain to aid you, my Lady. I stand beside him."

They were still for a moment, a silent understanding coming between them. Then she planted a light kiss upon his cheek and stepped aside. Faramir watched her disappear into one of the other rooms of the royal quarters. He barely had time to wonder at the enigmatic exchange before Aragorn entered the common area.

It took all of Faramir's will to stifle the pained moan creeping up his throat. The man that stood in front of him seemed so far removed from the proud king he had once known. His person was pristine, his dark hair shining and his gray clothes without wrinkle or crease. But Faramir recognized his regal appearance to be a front for the mess his soul had become. Aragorn's face was ragged and dark. His eyes were outlined in shadows of fatigue and misery, clearly symbolizing the number of nights spent in sleepless torture. They were bloodshot, reflecting within them all the tears shed, all the moments lost to grief and anger. He walked without his normal poise, his steps somehow unsure, his shoulders slumped in painful defeat. He was a shadow.

The steward spent a moment recovering from his displeasure. Aragorn bid him a fair morning, and he mumbled a soft response. His mind was numb as his king picked through a pile of parchments delivered this morning for his approval. Faramir's purpose returned to him with pressing insistence, and he nearly jerked in remembrance. "Aragorn," he said, conjuring all his courage. _Just say it. You must!_ He sucked in a deep breath to calm his thundering heart. "We must not permit this peace treaty to occur."

The king stopped his shuffling through the papers. He stiffened ever so slightly, the muscles of his back flexing beneath the folds of his surcoat. Silence crawled over the two men, tense and riddled with anger and doubt. Faramir stood so stiffly that he could not breathe. The moment lasted indefinitely, and in it he lingered, waiting for his words to be accepted or rejected, hoping his king would at least hear his reasons. He remembered what Arwen had said about Aragorn's compromised objectivity and grew fearful the other would not even grant him the chance to defend his statement.

That worry, however, proved false and groundless. "Explain," Aragorn said softly, a terse edge coming to his normally steady voice. He turned, abandoning his task to look upon Faramir.

Whatever speech he had conjured while he laid restless the night before disappeared in the face of the actual event. Instead, he simply spoke, the words flowing haltingly. "More happened at Emyn Arnen than I have previously disclosed to you. I had rather hoped the information would prove pointless. Forgive me my ignorance."

The quiet words had the desired effect. Aragorn regarded him with sympathetic, interested eyes. Though the tension did not completely dissolve, its heat was lessened. "What more happened, Faramir?"

Eased by Aragorn's acceptance of the idea, Faramir began to speak. He told the other of his strange conversation with Holis, explaining carefully all he had learned of the emperor's true identity. As he revealed the man as a Lieutenant of Sauron, Aragorn's eyes had grown murderously dark. The king's jaw clenched in fury, and his right hand balled into a fist tight enough to bleed the color from his knuckles. Onward the steward plunged, adding the details of what Holis had said of his intentions and ambitions. He mentioned the man's involvement in the fall of Osgiliath, in Faramir's own wounding. Then he spoke of his own foolishness in telling Holis of Gondor's plans, though now, given that the peace treaty was mere hours away from ratification, his act seemed far less dangerous and upsetting. He spoke of the attack on Éowyn and Holis' valiant interference. He explained his misgivings over the man's shifting moods and personalities, over the utter mystery of why he acted as he did.

When he was finished, Aragorn had turned from him. For a long time, neither of them could break the loud quiet. An intrusive memory came to Faramir in the emptiness. Again he felt the weight of Holis atop him, his body and mind reeling from their fall during the battle. The brush of the man's breath upon his face. The touch of those fingers upon his temple. He shuddered. _"I will not forget this."_

"Do they mean us harm?" Aragorn asked. The sound of his voice yanked Faramir from the unsettling recollection, returning him with a nauseating jerk to the present conversation. The king pivoted again, meeting his steward's gaze. "Do you believe they mean to entrap us with this treaty somehow?"

Faramir sighed. "I do not know. I have spent many hours contemplating these questions, and I can sadly arrive at no conclusions that satisfy me. My mind deplores the time I have spent doubting them. Holis has done naught but what he has promised. His forces were invaluable at Emyn Nimsîr. If not for his aid at Emyn Arnen…" He could not finish, the sound of Éowyn's piercing scream stealing his breath. He could not even bear the hideous thought. "It would be far too elaborate an act to be feasible. If they meant to destroy us, why not simply besiege the city and have their war?"

Aragorn's eyes were distant. His face was fractured in dismay, torn between memory and reality as well. Faramir waited, anxiety jolting through his body, and watched his king battle his own doubts and dread. "Curse this all," whispered Aragorn, his eyes focusing in a blink and his breath coming as a sharp hiss. "I know not what to do!"

Such admittance did not come easily, especially for a man as proud and independent as Aragorn. Faramir sighed and stepped closer to his liege, seeking to comfort as well as offer any advice he could. Truthfully, he was no more certain than Aragorn of the proper course of action. His soul ached at seeing his king's distress, though, and he would not allow the other to face this torment alone. He had sworn to remain his guardian, his adviser. His friend. "It is hardly any consolation, but I sincerely believe that Holis' interests lie not in simple war. If he desires something of us, it will not come in bloodshed."

"They have lost too much for this to end in betrayal," Aragorn declared.

Therein lay the truth of the situation, perhaps the only fact of which they could be sure. Regardless of what the Haradrim wanted, of what their real intentions might be, they had suffered far too great a loss to make their gain worth it. There were easier ways to destroy Gondor. The men who had died at Emyn Nimsîr would have been better spent in a siege if conquering Minas Tirith was their intention. The city was too well fortified now. Any attack would be quickly and completely crushed.

Holis had kept his word. He had promised Harad would stand beside Gondor, and it had. Without a doubt, it had.

"It is only my heart that cries this warning," said Faramir softly, his expression downcast and his spirits sinking. "For all the want of it, it cannot make my mind agree with its suspicions. I am tired of feeling so confused, so torn." It felt good to confess that weakness for some reason. It was as though a small bit of the burden had been lifted from his weary spirit, and though there was much yet pressing it down, that release was amazingly pleasant. The steward gathered himself, drawing a deep breath. He laid a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "I follow you, my Lord. I will always be with you, no matter the course of fate."

Aragorn was still a moment more. Faramir watched the emotions flicker in his gray eyes. Then the king sighed softly. He grasped Faramir's arm and said, "The first step in peace is faith. Let us put our hope in this alliance." He smiled weakly. "It was proposed to end a war. Perhaps, one day, it might prevent another."

Faramir nodded. _Perhaps._

* * *

The Court of the Fountain was a spacious place. It had been constructed to reflect Gondor's might and prosperity, and it achieved that goal magnificently. Polished stone pathways extended from the massive gates to the grand arched entrance to the Citadel. The surrounding grass was expertly and meticulously clipped, and not one loose leaf ever marred the perfectly swept walkways. One road led pedestrians from the gate, and it cleaved in twain in the middle of the yard, curling around the beautifully crafted fountain in the center. The monument was framed by a circular channel of water which surrounded a small platform. The liquid was clear and pure, trickling into the stone trough lightly. It was a clever illusion, for the ground seemed to meet the level of the water, as though the fountain formed a natural river that forever circled this tiny island. Upon the elevated area was the symbol of Gondor's strength, the White Tree. Once it had been a suffering, bent form, twisted with evil and illness. Now it was bright, glowing vibrantly, its ancient magic silently awesome. The vitality of the withering symbol had been restored by Aragorn after the War of the Ring, as the new king had offered a sapling he had found as a replacement to the husk the tree had become. In the years since, it had grown under the loving care of all the nation, the black and silver leaves raised to the sky, the white blossoms filling the air with a sweet perfume. It was truly the triumph of the courtyard, shedding light and love upon all who looked upon it.

Behind the fountain the paths again merged, continuing to the massive entrance to the Citadel. The building wrapped around the yard as well, embracing the airy place with large stone arms. These wings housed the gardeners and groundskeepers. They had also been designed to allow spectators access to the events of the Court, for often in previous years when the blackness of Mordor had not yet so violently choked the nation, activities would be held on this plaza. Grand stone balconies extended from the structures. From them were suspended the banners of Gondor, the black cloth flapping gently in the growing wind. Though the yard was completely enclosed, never did one feel trapped. It was truly palatial in its size, great and open, and above the sky hung over it like a canopy.

Faramir grunted. _I must amend my opinion,_ the steward thought as he was again jostled by the crowd. _Even this place can seem small when filled with_ every _citizen in this city!_ The estimation was quite the exaggeration, but he was in foul enough a mood to let it stand. Everywhere people stood about, chatting loudly, laughing, shouting, even crying. The Citadel Guards had formed a line on either side of the path, blockading the crowed from pushing onto the stone. The gardeners would not be pleased to find their once majestic grass so utterly trampled. Faramir squinted as he pushed through the throng, struggling to think above the din. Outside he could see the Guards stationed at the door, barricading the entrance to prevent the swelling crowd beyond the seventh gate further access. He doubted those that had planned this event had expected such an immeasurable turnout. Merchants, tradesmen, farmers, painters, women and children… All had come to this memorial. Though the ruckus was giving him quite the headache, he was somehow heartened by the enormous assembly. Those that died deserved no less, really.

At the entrance to the Citadel stood many of the Guard at attention. They bore their black uniforms proudly, though their faces were devoid of emotion and their expressions were tense. Watchful eyes ever scanned the crowd, searching for signs of possible danger. Closer to the vaulted foyer were the Lords of Gondor. In their center was Aragorn, dressed regally, his winged crown atop his head. He appeared cold and forbidding as he spoke quietly to Imrahil. At his other side was his wife, and the Lady Arwen was silent and solemn. Éowyn's lips were drawn into a thin line as she waited, her face stoic and her eyes empty. Imrahil's family was also present, Amrothos' wide, young eyes darting about the congregation from beside his father. In attendance as well was Irehadde and many of the king's advisers, obscured from sight as they stood stiffly behind the delegation. All of Gondor's nobility had assembled for this monumental occasion.

Faramir's eyes swept the lines of lords and ladies. He doubted history had ever seen such a group of diverse nations and people coming together. Flying high were the banners of the king and of the steward. Also suspended about the entrance were the standards of Rohan and Dol Amroth, the greens and blues vibrant and proud. On the opposite side waved the flags of the Glittering Caves and Ithilien, the Elves and Dwarves standing in allegiance. Elladan and Elrohir stood side by side with the soldiers from the Elvish colony, their heads bowed respectfully. Yet, with careful observation, Faramir could detect the tension in their lithe bodies. In fact, hanging over the entire area was a thick and smothering apprehension. He supposed it was warranted. After all, a year ago inviting Gondor's most hated enemy so deep into Minas Tirith would have been an act of lunacy. _Times are changing. Old prejudices die hard._

His gaze caught his wife's, and Éowyn held it a moment. She was quite beautiful this day, her golden hair wrapped into a bun and held in place by the circlet she bore upon her elegant brow. Her rose dress brought color to her otherwise pale face, and she seemed to glow with a brightness all her own that eased his heart to simply behold. He offered her a shy smile, and she returned a weak grin of her own.

The noise was deafening, but a growl from below him still managed to attract his attention. Gimli's eyes were dark as he glanced upward. "The Haradrim ought to hurry," mumbled the despondent Dwarf, "else the rain may beat them here."

As if on cue, a droplet splattered upon Faramir's nose, and he jerked, surprised at the sudden, cold impact. The sky overhead was overcast and gloomy. It hung low, as if weighed down by the rain it bore, the clouds thick and gray. The steward glared at the offensive sight sourly. "Even the sky cries for this day," he murmured quietly.

"What did you say, Faramir?"

He shook his head, pulled from his shadowy thoughts. He grasped the Dwarf on the shoulder as they emerged from the edge of the crowd to stand near the fountain. "Nothing, Master Dwarf. I am sure they will be here shortly." Gimli was tense under his fingers, and Faramir sympathized with his anxiety. This would be no easy task for any of them. As if the prospect of welcoming a once hated and fierce enemy into their midst was not disconcerting enough, it was coupled with the public ritual of mourning those that had died. Of those who had not come back. It would prove a difficult and emotional afternoon. Faramir nearly wished he did not have to be present for this ceremony. Like Gimli, his grief was a private matter. He did not want to share with strangers the depths of his hurt, of his guilt and rage, of his sadness. It seemed somehow inappropriate.

Gimli voiced what he could not. "Legolas would not want this." Faramir stiffened at the sorrowful words. "I know Aragorn does not do this to make a show of his hurt. I know he means well, for all of Gondor. But the Elf… the Elf did not like sympathy. He would not approve of this."

The steward closed his eyes against the sting of his tears. He took a deep breath to compose himself, swallowing the aching lump in his throat. When he felt strong again, he spoke. "I know, Gimli. We all do. Let us take this for its worth. Some may benefit." He thought of Fethra and felt reaffirmed in their purpose. He could not spot Ioreth in the crowd, but he was certain she had brought the child to this event. He had spoken with the healer the day before and had been pleased to learn that Fethra was adjusting well to her new home. The girl was still melancholic, but the other children eased her suffering. For the first time in her short, sad life, she was with a true family.

Gimli released a short breath that shivered in a restrained sob. His hand closed over Faramir's briefly. "You are a good friend, Faramir," he declared softly. Then he turned and walked slowly to this place among the nobles.

Faramir watched him until he could no longer pick his stout, forlorn form from the crowd. Then he released a slow breath. _A good friend. I failed him, Gimli. I failed him in ways you cannot even begin to imagine._ Memories haunted him, but he angrily shoved them aside. He would not add more misery to this afternoon by dwelling on his faults. He was the Steward of Gondor. The people looked to him for strength, for guidance. He turned slightly as the wind pushed by him, bringing the scent of the flowering tree near which he stood. His eyes narrowed as he looked upon the renewed tree, wondering at its endless glow, at its endurance. The lowest branch was well above his head, despite the fact it had been a mere sapling two years earlier. Darkness had come to Gondor many times before. Even when hope had seemed to all but disappear, they had not given up their valiant fight. He recalled then days spent as a child, looking upon the withered tree. Though Boromir had told him that never again would Minas Tirith have such glory, his young mind had never allowed him to lose that dream. Now the tree stood, beautiful and magnificent. _From the ashes rises life. We will not let this defeat us. Blood will never dampen this tree's glow._

A flash of dark hair caught his attention, and he turned once more. He saw Éomer speaking softly to Imrahil's daughter, Lothíriel. She was cousin to Faramir, and quite resembled her mother in look and manner. The lady was young, her face pretty and pale, her form slender and an ideally attractive shape. She was soft-spoken but not shy, purposeful in words and gentle in voice. He regretted that, as with Imrahil's sons, he did not know her better, for she was a kind and lovely girl. Éomer was adorned in regal attire, his hair drawn back, his green surcoat snug about his body. The clothing made him appear older and wiser. At this distance Faramir could not hear their conversation, but Lothíriel's lips turned ever so slightly in a smile. The steward could not help but lift his spirits at the sight. Éomer's eyes glowed faintly as he bowed to the woman, she curtsying in return. Éomer bade the lady a fond farewell, kissing her hand softly, before turning. Faramir witnessed the hints of a blush creep upon Lothíriel's cheeks as she clutched her hand lightly to her breast. Then she joined her family.

Faramir smiled at his brother-in-law, and Éomer received the gesture with a sheepish grin and half of a shrug. The young King of Rohan picked his way through the mess of nobles and guards to reach the steward's side. He was somewhat breathless. "It is nearly time," he said, though it was clear his mind was upon matters entirely different from this event.

The words dampened his elevated mood immediately. He stood, releasing a slow breath, forcing the taut muscles of his body to relax. He did not want to join Aragorn at his rightful place. He did not want this painful show to commence. That trepidation had more than anything dragged him away and into the crowd. It seemed assuming his proper position would only cement the truth and augment the pain. His body felt heavy, his legs planted solidly upon the path. Staying as such indefinitely was a silly thought, but his beleaguered mind was forced to consider it.

There was a flash of black. Faramir turned at the movement in his peripheral vision. There, near the side of the crowd, a dark figure slipped inside the right wing of the courtyard. It had happened so quickly that for a moment he doubted his eyes. He squinted, staring at the now securely closed door, questioning the validity of his fatigued senses.

Éomer, however, quickly confirmed that it had been no trick of his imagination. "Did you see that?" The young king leapt into motion then, for Faramir was already moving. On light feet the ranger pushed his way into the mass of people, quickly weaving through the horde of spectators. Éomer was close behind him, struggling to dodge feet, arms, and bodies that suddenly came to obstruct their path.

Eventually they emerged near the right wing. They stood in the shadow of one of the massive balconies, glancing about them in search of clues to verify what they had seen. There was nothing amiss. Éomer even asked some of the people standing about the area, but none had witnessed anything suspicious or extraordinary. After a moment, the two lords rested at closed door. "Perhaps we saw naught," Éomer suggested, his young face torn in doubtful befuddlement.

Faramir was forced to entertain the prospect, even though he was decidedly unsure that all was well. The wind grew cold, and his skin tingled madly against its icy caress. Raindrops splattered periodically in his hair, as if seeking to drive caution into his head. He looked around frantically, desperate for any indication that this dark foreboding was true, for any evidence that there was indeed some threat. "Surely the gate Guards would have apprehended an intruder," Éomer announced, squinting and a bit winded. He glanced nervously to the front of the yard and the mess of people blocking their approach. "Mayhap we should return, Faramir. The ceremony will begin shortly."

The nagging voice of duty distracted him for a moment. He was needed with his king. He was a steward; he could not simply go gallivanting in search of some phantom danger! And his mind was too eager to make a fool of him. He was not about to be a willing participant in his own embarrassment. _My own? If I am tardy, it will be the embarrassment of my nation as well._ But, try as he might, he could not shake the crawling feeling that something was amiss. The air reeked of a silent menace.

Without another thought, he grabbed the knob of the door and pulled it open. Éomer tried to speak, but the steward was already inside. The young king grunted his annoyance before leaping through the closing portal as well.

It was dark within, a few candles suspended along each wall of the long corridor. It took Faramir's eyes a moment to adjust to the diminished illumination. Ahead was a flight of stairs. "This is folly," Éomer stated simply as he followed Faramir up the steps. "We are lords, not guards! It was probably some boy seeking a better vantage from a restricted area. That is if it was something at all!"

The steward silenced Éomer's complaints with a quick, stern look as they reach the second floor. The king's face darkened with annoyance, but he obliged his friend and said nothing more. Faramir stood still atop the stairs, struggling to listen above the pounding of his heart. At first there was silence. The breathing of the two men echoed down the empty, dark hallways. Periodically, gray light entered as beams through the windows and balconies. There was the blasting of horns, then, and a great ruckus from outside. Éomer groaned. "Faramir…"

"Up," gasped the steward softly, still not satisfied. His feet were moving rapidly after that, flying along the second set of stairs to the third level of the wing. Once there he stopped. He glanced down both lengths of the dark corridor. _Which way? There is not the time to check them both!_ "Go right," he whispered shortly to Éomer. "I shall go left."

Éomer's mouth opened in a refusal, but he closed it again at seeing the worried, fearful look in the steward's eyes. He nodded, now convinced that this was no act of flippancy. On quiet feet he turned and proceeded into the shadows.

Faramir drew a deep breath and slipped down the blackened corridor. His tensed his body, using all he had learned as a ranger to tread lightly but quickly. He minimized the sound his jogging body made, breathing softly and stepping carefully. It would do no good to alert whatever danger lay in wait with a noisy approach. He passed doors, stopping to glance inside and finding only empty quarters. The light from the balconies spilled into the hall, illuminating the stones of the floor. His heart pounded in his throat. With each step he drew closer to the end of the corridor, and his frenzied search had yielded nothing. This was just some figment his senses had conjured forth to make the fool of him. Surely this was some boy after all…

A great roar came from outside.

He stopped as he passed the opening to one the balconies. His heart stopped, his breath hitching in his throat.

There, hiding in the shadows of the overhanging floor above, was the black clad figure. Faramir swallowed his terror and pressed himself along the wall, fearing that any slight sound might draw attention. Horrified eyes watched as the dark form shifted, languidly parting a cloak of shadow to reveal what appeared to be a quiver. He looked down the arm and saw a long bow.

Faramir could not think. He could not breathe. Outside Aragorn was speaking, proclaiming the purpose of this day to the crowd assembled and welcoming the Haradrim to the Citadel. The words made no sense to the muddled mind of the steward. He could concentrate on naught save the actions of the assassin. He was paralyzed, frozen by fright, shock, and dread.

The shadows shifted. The figure parted with his cover and stepped to the railing. The arrow was fitted to the bowstring, and the assassin held perfectly still. Sleek. Powerful. Strong. Faramir's mind utterly stopped.

He recognized that poise.

The figure drew back on the bow, and the tip of the weapon fell into plain sight. It was gray, expertly and ornately carved, distinctly Elvish. Mindlessly his feet moved, stepping away from his cover so that he might more fully observe. The deadly tip of the arrow was centered on the Citadel's entrance, more than a hundred yards away from the vantage. He knew of only one person who had the skill to strike such a target.

The rain came softly. Silence.

_No. This cannot be. Stop this! Stop!_

"_Legolas, no!_"

But it was too late. The bow of the Galadhrim sang a murderous melody as the arrow was released.

A shrill scream resounded, and the king fell.


End file.
